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wife-of-all-dilfs · 6 months

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bad idea, right? | f. odair

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summary: after receiving a late-night call from your ex-boyfriend, finnick odair, you can’t help but agree to meet with him. what happens when you mix a sound-proof train car and an ex you haven’t seen in months?

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: rough-ish smut, a teensy bit of angry sex, swearing, unprotected sex (zon’t zo that), kinda ooc finnick, choking,

notes: based on 'bad idea, right?' by olivia rodrigo. i lost the person who sent the request so sorry this took so long to come out!! i don’t know if i like how this is written, but smut is smut so… enjoy :)

word count: 4.6k

Neon beams of light pulsed in time with the heavy bass blasting throughout your unnecessarily large home in the Victor’s Village. District Two. Masonry. Big houses.

Two shots of tequila and some other very unnatural concoctions were soaking deep into your brain. Everything was swaying—the room, the people, even you. Your small group of friends danced by your side, keeping together to avoid the creeps that might have entered your home. Although, to you, entertaining a stranger that night did not sound like such a terrible idea.

You felt lonely. Undeniably and pathetically lonely. The alcohol only enhanced your emotions and libido, leading you to search the room for anyone who interested you enough to take them upstairs. But there was no one, because in reality there was only one person you really wanted, and he was no longer yours. He hadn’t been for months.

Replacements had come and gone, but they never stuck. None of them made you feel the way he did.

“Excuse me!” an exasperated voice yelled. “Would you please get out of my way?!”

To your right, your housekeeper, bless her poor deafened soul, was pushing through a crowd of intoxicated partygoers and heading straight for you.

“Claudia!” you shouted over the music, tugging down your short black slip dress out of respect for her modesty.

The elderly woman stopped in front of you, her disapproval of the vibrant scene clear as day. You always paid her double in exchange for putting up with the chaos whenever you threw a house party, which was almost every weekend.

She hovered close to your ear. “There is someone on the phone for you!”

“Did you get a name?!”

After she shook her head, you escorted her through the thick crowd of dancers, into a quieter room and thanked her before beelining for the landline.

With a heavy sigh, you brought the corded phone to your ear and said, “Whoever this is, you better make it quick. I’m not nearly as intoxicated as I need to be and in dire need of another shot.”

Over the scratchy static, you could hear a quiet chuckle—a sound you had spent months trying to forget, along with the person attached to it. How many drinks did you have again? The alcohol must have messed with your mind because this could not be real.

“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” the caller said, his voice low and amused.

Everything you had longed to forget came rushing to the surface at an overwhelming pace. Wisps of hair the colour of a dying fire. Eyes resembling the sea. Arms that once acted as a life jacket. A dangerous mouth that had explored every inch of your body.

No. It couldn’t be—

“Finnick.”

********

Stupid. This was so fucking��stupid. You were attempting to sneak out of your own party. A good old Irish Goodbye in your own house. With luck, you would make it out the front door without being caught by your friends, or worse, Claudia. Now that would be scary.

Water flushed through your system, a weak attempt you made at sobering yourself up because meeting up with your ex while drunk was a recipe for disaster. Then again, so was meeting up with your ex in the first place. Nothing will happen, you thought to yourself, we are just going to talk.

A thought even more unbelievable than thinking you would be able to be able to escape the watchful eyes of your friends.

Your high-heeled foot had just crossed the front door when someone called your name. “Damn,” you muttered, turning back around.

Valeria, your closest yet heavily intoxicated friend strutted over to you, her feet wobbling every few steps. “You sneaky little minx,” she slurred. “Someone said they saw you on the phone. It was him, wasn’t it? He asked you to go see him.”

“Just as friends. No, not even. As acquaintances.”

“Oh, my sweet, sweet silly friend.” She grabbed you by the shoulders. “We both know you aren’t that foolish.”

You looked away because you knew damn well that she was right.

“Look, I get it,” she continued. “Your hot, he’s hot.” You smiled. “You both have a history. I just want to make sure you know all the outcomes of what you're about to do. I’ll be here for you if things do get messy but expect a well-versed speech of me saying ‘I told you so’ afterwards.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Val,” you laughed, prying her hands off your shoulders. “I really do appreciate your concern, but I promise all we’re going to do is talk.”

“Alright, but if things go south, call me. Immediately!” she called a little too loudly as you took subtle steps away from the front door and onto the street. “Have fun with your innocent little ‘talk’!”

“Thanks, mum!”

You waved goodbye as you walked down the street, body buzzing with exhilaration and apprehension. Finnick had told you his train stopped in the district’s station for the night. He and his new victor were travelling throughout Panem for the Victory Tour and were currently in District Two. You didn’t know much about his tribute, only that they were a she. The thought of Finnick spending all his time with another girl had that green-eyed monster inside you writhing.

Enough to make you agree to meet with him after midnight while moderately drunk and slightly horny. What a fantastic plan.

District Two’s train station was a short distance from the Victor’s Village, but it was long enough to cause you to remove your heels. You finally reached the train, barefoot and with the wind softly blowing your hair. Finnick had specified a particular door to knock on so as not to alert the peacekeepers residing within the train. So, you knocked. And then you waited.

Your heart was pounding; your hands were trembling. Not long after, a dark figure appeared behind the door’s tinted window. With a click, the door opened and revealed a shirtless smirking Finnick Odair.

Oh, fuck me.

He was even more gorgeous than the last time you saw him. His crossed arms bulged with thick muscles as he leaned against the doorframe, gaze shamelessly roaming over your scarcely dressed appearance before settling on your face. The amusement in his expression was ever-present and ever-growing.

“Finnick,” you greeted.

“Y/N.”

He extended his hand, inviting you inside the train and hesitantly, you accepted. Sparks of electricity travelled up your arm, starting from where his and your hand connected. Some things never changed.

Empty silence welcomed your presence as you entered the train car. Patterned silver vases of white roses were placed atop every available surface. Meticulously crafted chandeliers lit up the room with a golden haze. To your left was an arrangement of black leather couches surrounding a small silver table; further down the car was a rectangular mahogany dining table decorated with fruit and unlit candles.

Somehow a single train car was more luxurious than your entire house.

“Is every one asleep?” you asked, running your fingertips along the pure gold that lined the couches.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes following your movements. “Every room on this train is sound-proof, so...”

You nodded, unsure of how else to reply. Conversations usually ran smoothly between you and Finnick. They were effortless. But that was when you were together. Four months must have passed now since you last spoke.

“Are you and what’s-his-name still together?” he asked.

“No,” you said bluntly. “I broke up with him last month.”

“My sincerest condolences.” His sympathetic tone was as transparent as glass. Sarcasm always was his favourite pastime. “Guess he just couldn’t satisfy your needs.”

Turning around to face him, you leaned against the couch’s arm, jaw clenched and eyes glowering with agitation. “Is there any specific reason why you called me here?”

He raised a glass of rich amber liquid to his lips. “Can’t two old friends just reconnect?”

“Old friends,” you scoffed. “That’s what you call it. From what I remember, the last time we saw each other, we were having goodbye sex in your bed. And in the kitchen and the lounge and on the balcony.”

Something sincere overshadowed his teasing nature, revealing itself in the tension in his facial muscles and the glassy haze that clouded his eyes. Reminiscence. “It didn’t have to be goodbye,” he spoke softly whilst holding your gaze.

You blinked. There was a short pause and only the quiet hum of the lights sounded in the room. You were the one to end the relationship, not the other way around much to your friends’ disbelief. Over and over, you had been asked the same question: why on earth would you break up with Finnick Odair?

Well, behind closed doors, he was incredible. He was loving, affectionate, and thoughtful. He would collect seashells for you that he found on the beach whenever he went fishing, leave hand-written poetry and heartfelt love letters whenever he left for the Capitol, and mother of fucking Christ was the sex just downright extraordinary.

But as previously stated, it was all behind closed doors.

Finnick never wanted to be seen together in public and on the off chance you were, he would practically neglect your existence. Only your most trusted friends and Finnick’s family knew about your relationship. No one else. Eventually, the secretiveness created a deep void inside you that not even the sweetest love letters and seashells could fill. You couldn’t remain with someone who seemed ashamed to be with you in public.

So, with a heavy heart, you said goodbye.

In fear of becoming too emotional, you disregarded his weighted words and crossed your arms. “So,” you began, “how’s the Tour been so far? You must be pretty ecstatic one of your tributes actually won.”

He bounced back fairly quickly. “I suppose it’s always nice to watch someone you trained live for a change,” he said, placing his drink on a nearby table. “Plus, she’s got a lot of charisma. A natural with the speeches and interviews, so I don’t need to do too much coaching.”

And there it was again—that green-eyed monster. “Charisma, huh?” You just couldn’t help yourself. “Is she pretty too?”

Finnick tilted his head, visibly surprised by your blatant jealousy. “She just turned sixteen,” he stated with a small smirk tugging at his lips. Well, no one told you that bit of information. Awkward. “Careful, Y/N. You sounded a little jealous there.”

You pushed off the chair, heading back toward the door you entered through. Maybe this was a bad idea. “Alright, I’m leaving now.”

Just as you turned the handle, a set of rushed footsteps thudded behind you. The door opened a mere crack, sending in a cold draft that caused your body to shudder.

“Wait, just—” A swift hand came over your shoulder and pushed the door shut, eliciting a startled gasp from your lips. You could feel Finnick towering over you, the warmth of his skin spreading onto your cold back and his breaths fanning down against the bareness of your shoulder. He was so close. “I just needed to see you before I leave tomorrow morning.”

Slowly, you turned around, coming face-to-face with the man you shouldn’t have loved. His burning gaze was a stark contrast to the icy metal door your back was pressed against. Tension pulsated in the small space between you and him. The intense attraction that had first brought you two together came rushing forth; trying to fight such a magnetic force was impossible. You needed connection—touch.

This night would not end with just a simple innocent chat, you knew that now.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. “You needed to see me?” you asked. “Finnick, if you want me to stay, don’t beat around the bush. Tell me what you really want.”

Silence. He continued staring at you and you could see a scheme forming behind his mesmerising green eyes. Then the scheme was unfolding. He leaned down to your level, to your lips, his half-lidded eyes never leaving your mouth as he just barely allowed his lips to brush yours. On instinct, you tilted your head upwards.

“I want you,” he whispered.

You didn’t waste a second to respond. “Then take me.”

He was quicker than a bullet train. Finnick’s lips caught your own and were burning with fiery desire, evident in his haste to wrap you up in his arms and practically merge your body with his. Flames licked just beneath your skin, setting your nerves alight with passion and lust. You burned together in an inferno fuelled by each other’s touch.

Logically, this was wrong. Finnick was your ex-boyfriend and for good reason. But as your hands clung to every inch of him that they possibly could, as his tongue and yours danced fluidly with one another, and as your body buzzed with pure adrenaline, you were willing to abandon all your morals in exchange for five more minutes in his embrace.

A moan travelled from your mouth to his own as you felt him bite your lower lip. You could already feel that familiar throbbing sensation between your thighs and the wetness that exposed how much you craved him. You knew he felt the same. His sweatpants left little to the imagination.

Your hand slipped between your connected bodies, travelling down Finnick’s firm stomach, gliding over his small trail of hair and finally into his pants. Your fingers curled around his cock which already leaked with precum. He was just as desperate as you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound sending tingles down your spine.

You left his lips to press a wet kiss to his neck. “I wonder how many times you pretended your hand was my own,” you purred, leaving another kiss on his clavicle. “How many times you tried to recreate the warmth you only feel when you're inside me.”

His mouth hung open, letting out quiet uneven breaths as you stroked his length, your pace so quick that he already felt an overwhelming urge to release into your soft unrelenting hand. The sound of your voice, so sexy and lustful, combined with your swift pressured movements had his stomach tensing and contracting with a devastating build-up of pleasure.

“Too many times,” he admitted in a strained voice.

You sucked on the warm pulsing skin of his neck, this time receiving a groan that buzzed on your lips. His hands grabbed at your hips for support, roughly kneading the softness and satin in his large palms.

“This dress—fuck!” his voice broke as another hand slipped into his pants, cupping his balls as the other twisted with each stroke of his cock. “Sweetheart,” he chuckled breathlessly. “You look like a fucking siren.”

Your soft lips pecked at his toned chest before pulling away and looking up at him through your lashes. Euphoric delirium was prominent in his eyes. “You should’ve seen everyone staring at my party,” you said. “I wish you saw how badly the men wanted to fuck me right there on the dancefloor; how they undressed me with their eyes. Maybe then you would understand the mistake you made by never showing me off.”

Aggravation blazed in his aroused eyes which only made you so much hornier. Before you could pump another stroke, Finnick had ripped your hands from his pants and spun you around, pinning your body against the wall with his own, his hard cock pushing against the plush of your ass.

“I do understand,” he growled into your ear.

He abruptly started sucking hard kisses onto the side of your neck which had you gasping for air and tilting your head to allow him further access. One of his hands cupped your breast, massaging it with rough fingers and pinching your peaked nipples between his fingertips. His other hand travelled around your hip, wandering beneath your revealing dress and slipping into your lace panties.

You cried out when two fingers plunged into your soaking hole without warning.

“Know what I wish?” he asked, fingers curling in and out of you at such a rapid pace that the wet noises could be heard throughout the entire room. Blissful tears threatened to spill down your face. “I wish those guys could see how you looked right now with my fingers fucking you.” The hand on your breast moved to your throat, applying enough pressure on your carotid to make your head pound with dizziness. “I wish they knew you only enjoy being fucked by me.”

Your walls squeezed around his fingers, pulling him even further inside. Your untouched breasts were squashed against the train door and the fabric of your dress rubbed against your sensitive nipples. Finnick’s cock twitched against you and his hand was constricting the blood flow to your head. Yeah. Nobody else could make you feel better than this.

Finnick plunged his fingers inside again with a hard thrust which forced a broken moan from your lips. “Isn’t that right?”

The heel of his palm dug into your clit and your entire body was overcome with pins and needles; your knees buckled and hit the metal door. That would definitely bruise. You hoped it would—you wanted a reminder of this night.

“Yes!” you gasped. “Finnick, only you. Only you.”

“That’s right.”

Your moans started to rise in pitch, signalling the orgasm which was rapidly closing in. But right before you could come, Finnick’s fingers slipped out of you and out of your now-drenched panties. Your orgasm began to fade due to the lack of friction until it disappeared completely, leaving you feeling frustrated and neglected.

Turning back around with a flushed face, you witnessed Finnick sucking your juices off his fingers with a pop. His grin was conniving, self-satisfied with his actions which proved how desperately you wanted him to fuck you. That smug bastard. You would give anything to wipe the amusement off his beautiful fucking face.

And, well, you did.

“Fuck you!” you exclaimed, shoving him backwards.

“Fuck me?” He raised an eyebrow, smirk twitching at his lips. “I already know you want to.”

With a frustrated cry, you shoved him again, but this time he caught you in his arms and fervidly crushed his lips to yours. You squirmed and writhed and resisted but eventually melted into his embrace when you remembered you wanted this. You wanted this so badly.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as both your bodies continuously curved into one another, neither of you being able to remain still for more than a few seconds. The taste of brandy and you were on Finnick’s tongue as it swirled around your mouth; the flavours, which were polar opposites, sweet and savoury, mixed together to create something utterly carnal.

With the knowledge that this was probably a one-time thing, your kisses became bruising and frantic. Finnick alternated between kissing your lips, your neck, your jaw, and any place he could possibly reach. You hung onto every sound he made, every hot breath he took.

The two of you stumbled around the train car, lips never leaving one another, hands grabbing at every inch of flesh they could reach. You bumped into walls and multiple glass ornaments and laughed together when Finnick just barely caught one before it shattered on the floor.

Eventually, you ended up down the opposite end of the train car. Your back hit something hard and you gasped in surprise. The dining table. Finnick gave a quick glance at the table before pressing another kiss to your lips, this time a little more tenderly.

“Turn around,” he said, and you did.

You immediately felt him press himself against your behind. You stared ahead, chest heaving and swollen lips tingling, waiting for any more commands. His hand walked around your thigh, over the mound of your pussy, and then grazed up your stomach. He left a trail of warm tingles between your breasts before continuing upward to move your hair from your shoulder where he placed another warm gentle kiss.

Finally, he splayed his hand flat between your shoulder blades and pushed, bending you over the table until your torso lay flat on the cold wooden surface. Finnick hiked your dress up to your hips and crouched down, caressing your outer thighs before sliding your panties down to your ankles.

The air hit your bare skin and you exhaled a shaky breath as you anticipated his next movements. As he rose to his feet, he trailed kisses up your leg, ending with a soft bite to your ass which earned him a small giggle.

You could hear him tug down his sweatpants which hit the floor with a muffled thud. Your breaths continued to shake with nerves, coming out in soft pants. Finnick held onto your hip with one hand and held himself in the other. No words were spoken. Both of you wanted this—needed this.

Next thing you knew, your panting breaths had stopped altogether. Finnick’s cock had slid between your folds, filling you up in one single movement, and you both released a relieved moan in sync. Your hands pressed against the tabletop as your body began to rock with his thrusts. You weren’t going to make love or whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. No. This was pure unadulterated fucking.

Finnick started off fast; neither of you had the patience for a slow build-up. You didn’t even bother caring about the fact that he wasn’t wearing a condom. His hand had lowered to your mid back and the other gripped your hip as your warmth swallowed him over and over.

“Oh god,” you gasped.

The sensations that overtook your body were eagerly welcomed. You had tried to replicate the sex Finnick gave with other men after your relationship ended, but none seemed to compare even the slightest. You weren’t sure how a single human being could provide the sensations of nirvana, how one could master the skills of bringing another person to such an incredible high, but Finnick could. He always could.

It was only at this point that you realised how badly your body had been in withdrawal from his touch. The feeling of him inside you was like a drug. Addicting. Definitely not healthy.

You had tried fingering yourself to replicate his cock, but it was a pathetic attempt. Finnick could hit a deep spot inside you that no one else could like it was some secret forbidden location that only he held the key to. He made your body feel full. Stuffed. Complete. In a way that made you feel like you were going to burst into an explosion of white heavenly light.

Your nails scratched at the wood as he continued to pound into you, cock gliding against the ripples of your inner walls. There wasn’t a single inch of space left inside you. He fit like your pussy was where he belonged.

“Always feel so fucking good,” he muttered between thrusts.

His pleasure was always vocal, voiced with heavy breaths, grunts, and groans. Sometimes he even whimpered, especially when you edged him. He didn’t mind you being more dominant at times, but right now was not one of those moments. Being bent over and fucked into a table was not in any way, shape, or form you being dominant. This was Finnick being in control and it felt incredible.

“Finnick,” you said. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”

In response he grabbed your other hip and pulled you back into him, burying himself even deeper inside you with each thrust which had you crying out his name again. He hunched over your body, hips still pounding behind you, and sucked harsh kisses on your shoulder. He left behind red and deep purple marks on your shoulder, moving to your neck, and then grazed your earlobe with his teeth.

He returned a hand to your throat, forcing the both of you into a standing position. His fingers squeezed, reducing the blood flow into your brain which enhanced the explosion building up inside you.

“Harder!” you cried.

Both his cock and his hand increased their vigour. Stars were sparkling in your vision. You were almost completely sober now, yet you felt entirely drunk. Drunk on Finnick. He reached his free hand between your legs and your body fell back into his, only remaining upright from his support.

His fingers rubbed side-to-side on your clit, so hard and fast that his hand almost blurred in motion. Your moans rose an octave as your stomach began to tighten. A fire burned within your muscles, so pleasurably excruciating that you thought they would liquefy inside you. Your pussy clenched around Finnick’s cock, walls fluttering with each of his pounding thrusts.

“Come, sweetheart,” he purred into your ear. You could hear how much he struggled to contain his moans as he talked. “Come on, I know you're close. I can feel you.”

You nodded mindlessly and curled your arm backwards around his neck, in need of something to cling to. As the feeling inside your stomach intensified, your eyes squeezed shut and your hold around his neck tightened until you were almost choking him. With every ounce of strength that he had inside him, Finnick increased his pace until he fit multiple mind-destroying thrusts into each second that passed.

He was almost animalistic with his pounding and unrestrained groans of pleasure. And you were so close, so, so close to falling over the edge. His hand was constricted around your throat; the other assaulted your clit, and his cock was mercilessly hitting that swollen spot inside you. Any second and—

“I’m go—I’m gonna come!”

A potent cocktail of pleasure, ecstasy, and release washed through your body, unravelling the tension inside your stomach and exiting through your stuffed hole. Your juices coated Finnick’s cock with warmth as you repeated his name over and over.

You could feel him twitching inside you, spilling himself onto your clenching walls whilst bending you over to senselessly fuck you into the table. His moans were so loud, so fucking attractive, but may God have mercy on both of you if the room wasn’t actually soundproof.

Neither of you could stop. You came an immeasurable number of times; your hands left marks on Finnick’s body as he did on yours, and every surface in the room had been tainted with your sin. You clung onto one another, desperately prolonging your night together that would most likely be the last. Ever.

*********

“Don’t leave again.”

Your fingers stilled as you strapped on your high heels. You glanced up at Finnick—who now had his sweatpants back on—from the gold-lined leather chair you sat in.

“Finnick…” you sighed.

“Please,” he said. Crouching down in front of you, he gently took your hand into his own. His face, which previously reflected nothing but pleasure, now looked at you with pained desperation. “I’ll explain everything to you. Why I was always in the Capitol. Why it was too dangerous for us to be seen together in public. All of it.”

The mention of danger took you aback. You had thought he never wanted to be seen together because he was embarrassed, not because it was… dangerous. Brows furrowed together, your eyes flickered between his, searching for any hint of deception, anything that might reveal malicious intentions. But when had Finnick ever been malicious towards you? Never. All you found in his eyes was sincerity.

“I can’t lose you again,” he whispered, lowering his head.

After a few seconds of contemplation, you realised there wasn’t a chance in hell you were going to walk out on him again. Life would mean nothing without Finnick beside you.

Your fingers sat under his chin, lifting his head to meet your gaze. The two of you exchanged a look of vulnerability, signifying an era of newfound understanding and reconnection.

You whispered in response. “You’ve got me, Finn.”

tags: @tayrae515

#wife-of-all-dilfs ✍️#finnick odair #finnick odair x reader #finnick odair smut #finnick odair imagine #finnick odair fanfic #finnick odair x you #sam claflin #the hunger games #catching fire #mockingjay #peeta mellark x reader #peeta mellark #katniss everdeen

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ao3commentoftheday · 6 months

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I don't know if you've seen the latest iteration of "tumblr is dying" but if you haven't, Automattic (owners of tumblr) have decided they will put the site into maintenance mode. This doesn't mean that tumblr will disappear, it just means that they'll keep the lights on and that's about it. They're taking the staff who have been working hard to try to make the site a success, and they're relocating those folks to other projects. A skeleton crew will remain on tumblr, keeping the site alive.

If we want tumblr to thrive, however, then we need to do something to support it - and that something is financial.

If you're someone who enjoys your time on tumblr and you're someone who has an entertainment budget, then consider visiting the TumblrMart and buying yourself a badge. Go ad-free. Choose the new option that I just discovered which is "Support tumblr" - that's the shiny t badge I now have that will change colour over time for the longer I subscribe.

This doesn't require every single user to pay for tumblr. Far from it. Just look at AO3 as the example. Time after time, they hit their fundraising goals and beyond, and I don't think they've ever had more than 10K individual donors for a userbase of something like 5 million.

I've been on this site for a decade. It's the only social media I actually like. I think the internet would be worse off if tumblr wasn't around. I'm going to pay what I can to keep this community around, and I'm going to encourage others to do the same.

If that's something you don't want to see, then feel free to block the tag subsidize tumblr that I'll use on posts like that. If you're open to the idea, then expect the occasional post from me on the subject.

Fandom has lost enough homes in my lifetime. If I can do anything to keep this one around, I will.

#subsidize tumblr #deliberately not using the word support here #in order to avoid being derailed #if at all possible

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confused-wanderer · 23 days

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Batkids all missed out on their childhoods, Bruce included. Give me them trying normal kid things for the first time in their lives and going crazy

Like Jason seeing a kid have one of those fake phones where you have to press buttons and water pushes the rings floating on the screen onto the poles, and he can’t get it out of his head for the next few days until Bruce gifts it to him one day. He doesn’t know how the old man knew, Jason’s still not used to Bruce’s I don’t know how to express affection here’s a gift for you but hey, he wasn’t complaining. Jason picks up the phone, and he’s hooked. He carries it around with him everywhere and it’s now become his comfort thing.

Or when the whole family went out to a night tour and saw the light up sticks. They all spent hours fencing with each other and just enjoying how bright the lights flashed. And when someone showed them the lights could flash and change colours? They. Lost. Their. Damn. Minds.

Jason gets Dick a pair of light up sneakers as a joke, but somehow the older boy fell in love with it. He didn’t know they lit up at first, wondering why Jason had a smug grin on his face when he put then on. But the look on his face when he saw the colors, the lights all flashing was one that Jason would never forget. It was a look of surprise, followed by an expression of such pure joy and excitement Jason could’ve sworn he felt his heart melt. Dick refused to get his shoes dirty, only wearing them on special occasions or when he was genuinely happy and showing them off to everyone, constantly stomping and jumping around to see them flash.

Stephanie? Stephanie accidentally walked over one of those roll up pianos and jumped back when she heard the music play. It’s now her favourite accessory in her home and she has many more instruments and customised musical rugs in her home (courtesy of Barbara). It’s one of her favourite things in life.

Damian somehow got addicted to Club Penguin after Tim introduced him to it. He spent hours hooked on that game, saving every puffle he could and collecting them. After the game vanished for the internet, he was so distraught he refused to eat his meal for four days straight. This ended after a new version somehow made its way onto Damian’s laptop. Tim will never admit till his dying breath that he brought the game back just for Damian.

#batman #dick grayson #nightwing #jason todd #red hood #tim drake #batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #headcanons #stephanie brown #spoiler #robin

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fuckyeahdindjarin · 2 years

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Grays

Frankie Morales x f!reader

{ Grays Masterlist | Main Masterlist | Grays Part II }

Rating: M

Summary: Frankie wants you to cover up his grays. You want to knock some sense into his salt-and-pepper head.

Warnings: Insecure Frankie in need of self-love comes with his own warning, Reader is a hairstylist and has a related nickname, no physical descriptions other than that Reader has hair that can be dyed, not-quite-friends to *respectfully looking* dynamics, mentions of hair, gratuitous descriptions of the male body, sexual innuendos, lots of teasing and banter.

Word count: 4.8k

Notes: The origin story is here if you missed it. This is dedicated to my Frankie soul sister LJ @prolix-yuy who encouraged me to write this many months ago ❤️ As always, I’m an anxious mess writing for a new-to-me Pedro boy, so please be gentle with me (cos it's my birthday week) 🥺

I have a part 2 (with smut) in mind. I love where this leaves off, but who am I kidding. I probably won’t be able to help myself 😂

The bell on the door chimes with a sweet tinkle, cutting through the low, insistent purr of the hair clipper buzzing in your grasp. You don’t look up as you spy broad shoulders and a battered Standard Heating Oil cap crossing the threshold out of the corner of your eye.

‘Are you lost, Morales?’ you drawl indifferently, focused on the task at hand. ‘I have an appointment with Pope today, not you.’

‘He booked it under his name. Thought you’d take it as a prank if I called in myself.’

You look up to meet his gaze reflected in the mirror sitting in front of Greg, your current customer. ‘I wonder why he’d think that.’

Frankie shrugs, leaning against the reception counter with his arms crossed. ‘Beats me.’

You snort. ‘Really? You’ve insisted loudly and repeatedly for as long as I’ve known you that you don’t see the point of going to a hairstylist when you can have Pope cut your hair with kitchen scissors in his bathtub.’

‘C’mon, Shiv.’

‘Oh, he knows my name,’ you gasp sarcastically. You turn to Greg, who’s clearly amused by this exchange, and loop him in. ‘He usually just grunts at me.’

At this point, Ashton - your apprentice and all-round salon maverick - makes an appearance. Clearly having caught the tail-end of your conversation with Frankie, he glances between the two of you with an arched eyebrow. ‘Are we back to chasing customers away, boss?’

‘Sit his ass down but he doesn’t get a free drink,’ you instruct. ‘I’ll get to him when I get to him.’

Ashton goes ahead and ignores your orders point blank, per usual. After hanging up Frankie’s jacket and settling him at the station furthest away from you in the far corner of the salon, you see him sneakily give him a coffee. He can never resist the handsome ones.

You take your sweet time with Greg, cleaning up his sideburns, even though you’re basically done with him - just to tick off your waiting customer.

Not that it works, and you know it won’t. He just sits there, his wide frame filling up the chair, still as a rock. The dog-eared, months-old magazines strategically placed on the table for idle reading lie untouched. That’s Francisco Morales for you.

You’ve been orbiting each other since sixth grade, as all kids in your close-knit neighbourhood do. In fact, most of your customers went to your school.

You don’t even remember how it started - probably at a sleepover - you discovered one day that you’re handy with box hair dye. By freshman year, you were colouring your fellow classmates’ hair in the girls’ toilets after school, earning enough pocket money to keep your cabinet at home fully-stocked with new hair products on rotation.

Your ever-changing hair colour got you into trouble with the headmaster more times than you can count, who nicknamed you Shape Shifter. Your friends abbreviated it to Shifter, then over the years, whittled it down to Shiv, and it stuck.

After being gifted a set of styling scissors for Christmas one year, you started hanging out at the neighbourhood salon, hustling for an apprenticeship. You practised what you observed on your fellow students, giving out haircuts on the bleachers on non-game days for a couple of dollars (the fee waived if something went disastrously wrong).

That’s how you first met Benny - his then cheerleader girlfriend took him in for a haircut when it got too long for her liking. When you eventually opened your own salon years later, he was your first paying customer, having come home after being honourably discharged from the army.

During the early days, when you struggled to fill your appointments and he couldn’t win a fight to save his life, you made a pact. You would do his hair at a heavy discount for his posters and promotions, and in return, he would let you use his photos for the salon’s marketing.

And it worked. Well, not that you had anything to do with him turning his fortunes around on the MMA circuit, but he had everything to do with getting customers through your door. It only got busier when Santi joined the ranks a couple of years later, and even though Will only shows up when his hair gets really unruly, they both sit in front of your camera with no complaint in return for mate’s rates.

Having these guys on your salon’s social media keeps both the gents and the ladies booking up your appointments.

Frankie Morales, though, is a different animal.

When you finally appear over his left shoulder, his coffee is all gone and he meets your eyes in the mirror nonchalantly. He’s leaning his whole weight on his right elbow on the armest, his left arm outstretched and blunt nails tapping on the table, the only hint of impatience he’s giving away.

He’s good at that - he’s the laid-back one out of the boys, the one who hangs back and observes with arms crossed, but quick to crack a grin and throw in a wicked barb when the occasion calls for it. Nothing ever seems to faze him, and probably nothing does - you hear that makes a good pilot, and from what Pope lets on, he’s a damn good one.

It also makes for highly effective bait for the ladies. He’s a popular fixture on the local bar scene - let’s face it, all of the boys are. You’ve seen him in action more than once when Benny or Pope invites you along on a night out, more often than not without Will since he had a baby girl with his high school sweetheart last year. Frankie’s brooding, quiet, beer-sipping act often works better than Benny’s over-the-top flirting or Pope’s Casanova bit.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Hands on your hips, you goad him, ‘Alright Morales, how do I know you’ll pay up, you cheap bastard?’

‘Pope says to put it on his tab.’

‘Music to my ears.’ You tap him on the shoulder. ‘Sit up and off with the cap.’

With a grumble, Frankie lifts the cap up by the beak, ducking his head as he does so. He tosses it onto the table offhandedly and shifts in his seat, but you’re not fooled by his unconvincing air of indifference. From the way he plasters his palms to the top of his denim-clad thighs, as if to stop them from fidgeting, you know he’s feeling vulnerable.

You can’t say you’ve ever seen Frankie without his headgear - now that you think about it, he’s been wearing it since high school. Heck, he might have gone through several incarnations of that blasted hat in the years in between. You’ve caught glimpses when he lifts it up to fix his hair, but otherwise, all you see is what peeks out from underneath, the longer wisps that coil around his ears and the curls at the back.

As it turns out, there’s really nothing to hide - sure, the cut is blunt and his hair lacks shine, but both can be easily fixed. You step into his space and comb through his locks, starting at the base of his skull and working your way up the sides.

The contact startles him - he practically jumps out of his skin, and you don’t miss the way the veins on the back of his hands pop and he digs his nails into his legs.

'Easy, boy,' you soothe with a teasing undertone, earning yourself a glower from the pilot. As much as you enjoy needling him, you do want your customers to be comfortable. So you let slip a deliberate but genuinely appreciative hum as the dark tendrils, subtly tinged with grays, part softly at your prying fingertips. ‘Wow, your curls are really thick.'

He looks up, an unsure frown on his brow. ‘Oh. Is that bad?’

‘No, Morales, it’s definitely a compliment,’ you tell him encouragingly - your bark has always been worse than your bite. ‘What do you use to wash your hair? It’s a bit dry.’

He shrugs. ‘Shampoo.’ At your insistent stare, he snaps, ‘What?’

‘Don’t lie to me, Morales,’ you warn him in a stern voice.

He huffs and gives in. ‘Fine. It’s a 2-in-1 body wash. I get it at the gas station, happy?’

You shoot him a smug grin as he rolls his eyes. ‘Well, you’re using proper shampoo from now on, and conditioner.’ He opens his mouth, a complaint on the tip of his tongue, when you hold a finger up at him. ‘Don’t argue with me, mister. I’ll throw in a couple of bottles on the house to get you started.’

‘Fine,’ he concedes. Unfailingly polite even when grumpy, he adds, ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Your trusty swivelling stool screeches in protest when you drag it over on its wheels, before you take a seat and address the elephant in the room. ‘So - I’m guessing you’re here because of the wedding.’

You get a grunt in response. Scratching a particularly scrappy patch of his beard that has turned prematurely silver, he says, ‘My ma says I should cover up my old man grays for it.’

You snort, shaking your head. ‘Ha! And you tell your mother I say - hell no, ma’am! I will do no such thing.’

Frankie blinks at your unexpectedly adamant response. ‘What?’

‘I said, hell no,’ you repeat. Turning his head to the side with two fingers on his stubbled cheek, you comb his locks upwards to study the way the grays blend in softly with the umber, matching the ashen flecks in his beard. He doesn't start as badly at your touch this time, but there’s a telltale tick in his jaw, and you can almost hear the tension that thrums just below his skin where a late summer tan still lingers.

‘See how your grays are mainly coming out on the underside?’ you point out. ‘I like the way they just peek through the brown, it gives more depth to your curls. Natural highlights, if you will.’

He looks unconvinced and swipes at a smattering of silver with dismissive fingers. ‘Dunno. Thought the grays make me look old.’

You chuckle. ‘You’re no spring chicken anymore, Morales, and I mean it in a good way. Grays are natural - they will look even better when you start using actual shampoo and conditioner. Trust me, the salt and pepper works on you. I’m not dyeing your grays, and that’s that.’

For the first time today, Frankie turns his head and looks directly into your eyes. ‘My mother’s coming back to town for the wedding, you know. And she remembers where you live.’

You laugh. ‘Go ahead and send her my way, you know I’m not scared of her.’

He scoffs at your big talk. ‘You should be.’

Your relationship with the Morales matriarch is complicated, to say the least. She was always hard on you when you were a kid, thinking you were too wild and undisciplined. Now that you’re grown, you’re still torn between your admiration for her as a single mother who raised a good man, and the woman who never tires of dishing out criticism, warranted or not.

You give him a reassuring pat on the back, solid and warm under your touch. ‘Leave your mother to me, Morales. The grays stay, and I’ll make sure you steal the show at the party.’

‘Your funeral,’ he quips.

‘You just worry about getting yourself to the wedding,’ you retort, cracking your knuckles. ‘Now, are you ready for some pampering?’

Frankie rolls his eyes, but you see the corner of his mouth tick up in a vaguely upward direction - and you take it as a win.

‘Relax, Morales.’

‘I am relaxed,’ he insists through gritted teeth.

‘You’re about as relaxed as a cow on the butcher’s block. Unclench.’

For someone as economical with words as he is, his body certainly says a lot. Every single part of him seems hellbent on making his discomfort known. He breathes a frustrated exhale through his nose, brow deeply furrowed, his glare burning holes into the ceiling.

The leather seat of the backwash barely contains his tall build, his t-shirt stretched to the seams across his chest as he leans back into the basin. He’s bouncing his left leg irritably, the tight denim straining against his lap.

You try - valiantly - not to gape too obviously at the conspicuous bulge nestled snugly between his thighs under his belt buckle. But you can’t avert your eyes from something of that size. It’s against the laws of physics. Or something.

Even from where you’re standing, at the top of the basin peering down the slope of his body, its heft is clearly testing the structural integrity of the zipper of his jeans. Imagine the view from the other side -

Clearing your throat, you bodily press down on Frankie’s shoulders which are coiled up like the hood of an angry python, forcing them to loosen up. He jerks as if he’s a copper wire and you’re electricity. You tease, ‘So sensitive. You act like you’ve never felt a woman’s touch before, Morales.’

‘You know that’s not true,’ he growls at you, the prominent vein in his neck starting to pulse in frustration.

‘No, you’re right - I do know,’ you smirk, dragging out your syllables.

Your tone has him frowning at you, upside down. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean - I know,’ you repeat with a conspiratorial wink.

He narrows his eyes at you. ‘What do you know, Shiv?’

You wriggle his eyebrows at him suggestively, enjoying yourself far too much. ‘I own a salon, Morales. I hear things from the ladies about town.’

One large palm reaches up to shield his face in embarrassment, a pained groan escaping between the gaps of his fingers. ‘For fuck’s sake - kill me now.’

You laugh, wrestling his hand from his face to with an impish grin. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve only heard good things so far - Frankie big boy Morales.’

He blushes so hard that his ears and neck go a livid red, and for a minute, you’re actually worried that he’d pass out from not enough blood reaching his heart. Not keen on the prospect of having to explain to the emergency services that you teased the poor man into an aneurysm, you turn on the water and cut short your little chinwag with a good-natured chuckle.

His hands are still tightly clamped around the armrest when you carefully run the shower head along his hairline and behind his ears, soaking his curls. His biceps flex from the tight grip and the lean muscles strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt.

At least he closes his eyes when you start with the shampoo. The velvety lather froths as you patiently wash his hair, which clings to his wet curls like vanilla frosting. The deep crease between his brows eases with each gentle swipe into his locks, and the invisible force pulling his lips downwards slackens. By the time you rinse out the bubbles, you don’t miss the way the tension in his body unwittingly goes with it down the drain.

When your nails slide slickly into his hair with the conditioner, his stubborn body finally, slowly unfurls. His head tips back of its own accord, baring the column of his strong neck as he leans inadvertently into your touch. Colour returns to his knuckles when he releases his death grip on the backwash.

You smile to yourself, scraping your fingertips along his scalp in a firm massage, watching his chest rise and fall as he teeters on the brink of consciousness.

As your thumbs trace a confident path down the back of his skull, they appear to find a particularly sensitive spot near the base of his neck, and it's as if a switch is flipped. You witness the exact moment he breaks - his back arches off the leather seat, his obstinate lips part with a strangled half-sigh catching in his throat as he yields his full weight into the palm of your hands.

If you're not careful, you could get used to this.

‘Still with me, Morales?’ you tease quietly.

He garbles incoherently, and you grin.

Frankie practically molds into the chair like warm wax when you shepherd him back to the styling station. You’re so chuffed with yourself that you don’t even feel the need to gloat at the way his eyes are glazed over and how his head lolls into the soft pressure when you run a fluffy towel through his hair. The man recoiling at the mere brush of your fingers a distant memory.

You run an assessing eye over him, brushing out his locks to gauge your game plan. ‘I like this length on you, so I’ll just trim the split ends and tidy up your sideburns. You’ll benefit from some layering too - it’s a bit heavy on top right now.’

From the way he blinks owlishly at you, you know he doesn’t catch a single word. He shrugs and says matter-of-factly. ‘You can’t do worse than Pope.’

The salon is quiet this afternoon, as it tends to be on Wednesdays. You let him enjoy the peace for a little bit and tap your foot to Ashton’s playlist as your styling scissors move over his curls in metallic snips.

‘Tip your head forward for me,’ you instruct, sliding around the back of his head on your wheels as you probe, ‘So - how are you feeling about the wedding?’

The fabric of his t-shirt bunches over his shoulders as they quirk noncommittally.

‘It’s just a few days away.’

He makes an indifferent noise. But you’re not so easily dissuaded from conversation, and he knows it.

‘Can’t be easy - watching your ex get married.’

Frankie pins you with a long-suffering stare in the mirror. ‘We broke up a year ago.’

Getting onto your feet, you ruffle your fingers through the crown of his curls. ‘Yeah, but you dated for years. She sure moved on quick.’

He huffs a sardonic laugh. ‘Thanks, Shiv.’

Swapping out the styling scissors for blending shears, you argue, ‘What? It’s a legitimate observation. I’m just making conversation here.’

‘Or we could just sit here quietly.’

Ha. As if you ever listen to him. You press on, ‘Why did she invite you anyway?’

Frankie’s sigh sounds a lot like surrender as he humours you. ‘It’s a damned if she does, damned if she doesn’t kind of situation, I guess. The whole town’s invited.’

‘You sure she isn’t trying to flaunt it in your face or something?’

‘Flaunting implies I still care. I don’t.’

You give him a juvenile nudge nudge, wink wink. ‘Well, on the bright side, you’ll definitely get laid, being the heartbroken ex and all. Chicks love that shit.’

He dispatches a side-long stare in your direction. ‘I’m not heartbroken, and that’s not why I’m going. And you know none of this is any of your business, right?’

‘You’re no fun,’ you pout.

He quips, ‘As a professional hairstylist, you really should be better at making polite conversation.’

You snort. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea to call me rude when I have scissors in my hands?’

Frankie watches you work in the comfortable lull that’s settled between you, gliding the blades along strands of his curls pulled taut, before running a fine-toothed comb through to brush out the loose tufts. Soft coils land on the floor around his chair as you work your way methodically through his layers.

‘Are you going to the wedding?’ he asks eventually.

You shrug. ‘Maybe, depends on my schedule. I gotta say, I’m kind of curious to see how tacky it will be.’

At his eyebrow sternly cocked, you argue, ‘I know she’s your ex and all, but she’s always been a bit tacky. I mean, that remodel of your house was just tragic.’

Frankie frowns. ‘How do you know all this? You’ve never been to my house.’

You wink. ‘Benny tells me everything when I do his hair.’

He pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Of course. Benjamin fucking Miller.’

You give him a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m on your side, if it helps.’

‘I don’t need you on my side.’

You flash him an insufferable grin. ‘Too bad, Francisco. I am and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

The hairdryer drowns out any further conversation, and Frankie quietly studies you as you cord your fingers through his hair, ruffling it as it dries.

It’s still a bit damp when you switch off the hairdryer and reach up to pull a couple of jars from the shelf above. ‘On the day of the wedding, I want you to wash your hair just before you style it. You have a hairdryer at home, right?’

He throws you a pointed look. ‘I’m not a heathen.’

You grin. ‘Down boy, just checking. Now, you’ll dry your hair until it’s still a bit wet, like so.’ Presenting the styling mousse to him, you say, ‘Then go on and grab some product - you only need a dollop.’

He dips his index finger into the pot, scooping up a generous blob. Your attention is unexpectedly piqued at the sight of his hands.

Have they always been so big?

Realising he’s staring at you in wait, you shake yourself out of it. ‘Ok, rub the mousse onto your fingertips and run them all over your hair, combing from root to end.’

Frankie does as he’s told, face set to a serious scowl as he impeccably goes over each section of his locks, staring into the mirror to make sure he gets every strand. For the first time, you see the pilot in him up close, and you wonder if he’s this thorough about other things, like -

Laundry, your mind interrupts as it careens on the brink of the metaphorical gutter. Get your shit together, Shiv.

‘Good,’ you smile when he’s done, hoping he doesn't see the strain in it. ‘Now, I want you to rake your fingers through the roots when you dry your hair all the way.’ In demonstration, your nails burrow into the base of his thick hair, then you wriggle your fingers upwards towards the ends. ‘It will give you lots of volume and really show off this cut.’

Passing him the hairdryer, you watch him critically in the mirror. He imitates your movements, a bit clumsily and far too cautiously. Leaning down to his ear so he can hear you over the whir, you instruct him, ‘Don’t be gentle, Francisco. C’mon, harder, deeper - don’t hold back.’

He chokes and pins you with a wide-eyed stare in the mirror that glances right off your oblivious self. Along with your words, nothing about this exchange would register in your head in any other way until much, much later tonight, when you replay the conversation in your head in that limbo between sleep and wakefulness.

It may or may not have you squealing into your pillow in latent embarrassment - and something else.

But for now, you’re happy with the way his hair has set, and you gesture for him to switch off the hairdryer. Turning his chair towards you and away from the mirror, you scan your eyes over him and make small adjustments - tucking a couple of strands behind his ear here, a couple of final snips there.

As a final touch, you bury your fingers into his locks, dragging your fingertips through the roots to impart a final tousle so that the curls are loose and soft. You preen at the way he sways into your contact, all shyness gone, his hooded eyes half-closed - before he seems to catch himself and sits up with a self-conscious ahem.

Grabbing a small bottle from the shelf, you say, ‘Last thing - your beard is a bit dry as well. This oil will keep it nice and moisturised, just two or three drops after you wash up in the morning will do.’

Tipping his face up by the crook of your finger and opening up his neck to you, you smooth the ointment along both sides of his jaw, rubbing circles into his neatly trimmed whiskers and all the way up his sideburns. Sliding downwards, your hands seek out the closely shaved stubble tucked beneath his chin. Then, by sheer momentum, your palms continue down his throat in a slow, sticky descent, until the pads of your thumbs slot into the hollow between his collarbones, your fingers resting at the base of his neck where you feel his pulse rabbiting underneath.

The air thickens and shifts between you. When he swallows, you feel the ripple of the moment against your fingertips.

His eyes are on you, and suddenly he’s too close, his skin too hot under your hands. To your horror, something akin to shyness rears its head and you almost stumble backwards to put a safe distance between you.

Scrubbing the oily residue from your hands on a towel, you break the moment with a wink and a steadier smile than you actually feel. ‘You look good, Morales. Ready to take a look?’

‘As if you would take no for an answer,’ he mumbles under his breath. Fondness might be too strong of a word - but you don't think you're imagining the faint trace of amusement in his voice.

With a dramatic ta-da, you spin his chair around with a flourish.

Frankie Morales is obviously not a vain man - he most likely owns five pairs of jeans that he’s worn on rotation for the past fifteen years, his t-shirts are washed ragged, and his trusty leather boots have seen better days. He probably doesn’t use a mirror other than for purely utilitarian purposes, like checking if there’s something stuck in his teeth from his last meal.

But right now, by the way he’s holding his breath as he meets his own eyes in the reflection, you can tell that he’s really looking at himself for the first time in a long while.

You pretend to busy yourself with tidying up the styling station as you discreetly sneak glances at him, feeling strangely bashful for intruding in this moment. When he remembers to breathe again, he tilts his head left then to the right, and back again, even swivelling his chair from side to side so he can peer round the back.

You’ve parted his waves to the side, the lighter cut allowing his curls to carry their natural shape. The healthy sheen, courtesy of the mousse, tempers his grays to a softer, burnt silver that catches the light fetchingly as he moves. Reaching up, Frankie pushes back a stray curl that falls over his eyes, and his back straightens in a quiet show of confidence.

Running a salon is hard work and often thankless. But on days like this? You know you’re meant to do this.

A dramatic gasp draws both of your attention. Ashton is clutching at his chest, backed up against the neighbouring styling station, gaping at Frankie. ‘Mister - you look good enough to devour. Look at that salt and pepper, I’m living for the grays. Doing the Lord’s work, Shiv!’

You laugh as Frankie flushes, scratching an invisible itch on his forehead. You brush the loose hairs off his shoulders with a towel and give him a nudge. ‘See? I’m not the only one who thinks you look good with the grays. You better stock up on the condoms, Morales, the ladies will be all over you at the party.’

He shakes his head self-deprecatingly as he stands up, rubbing his palms on his jeans, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. ‘I doubt it, but - thanks. I appreciate this, Shiv.’

He shrugs on his well-loved burnt yellow jacket, the one with the sleeves perpetually folded up above his wrists and grabs his cap. You hold out a paper bag with the free shampoo and conditioner you promised him, throwing in a jar of hair mousse for good measure. ‘You’re welcome, and you better not put your hat on again this afternoon after all that hard work.’

His fingers brush yours when he takes the bag from you, then, as if it’s the logical next thing to do, he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your right cheek, his stubble coarse against your skin - and you know without looking it’s the gray patch in his beard that brushes against your jaw as he draws back. You fumble, feeling heat prickle the back of your neck and blooming in your rib cage.

He flashes you the most self-assured smile you’ve seen on him this afternoon, which has you biting your bottom lip. ‘I won’t. Maybe see you at the wedding, Shiv.’

It takes you five full seconds to regain motor functions. By the time you unstick your tongue from the roof of your mouth, Frankie’s already out of the door with a spring in his step.

In companionable silence, you and Ashton watch the pilot strut - because that’s what he’s doing, he’s strutting with a confidence that becomes him - across the road through the glass front of the salon.

‘What a dish,’ Ashton sighs dreamily, flopping into a chair as if his limbs have given out. ‘I hope he comes back soon.’

You smile. A girl could always hope.

Notes: It's the first time I'm using a nickname for a Reader, but I have a real soft spot for Shiv, and I think she deserves one. I'm not sure where the fandom stands on this, does it disqualify the fic as a reader insert? If anyone has an issue with this, please let me know! For me, Shiv has no physical descriptions so to me she's still a reader insert.

I don't know if anyone expected this kind of dynamics between these two, but it's been so much fun to write with a bit of antagonism in the mix. I hope you enjoyed this, reblogs and comments are so, so appreciated as always. Thank you for reading ❤️

#frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #francisco morales #triple frontier fanfic #frankie friday #queue

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hwaightme · 2 months

Text

Feel alive

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🌑 pairing: strictland!seonghwa x gn!singer!reader 🌑 genre: fluff, angst, dystopian, sci-fi, noir, music, lovers to enemies to lovers 🌑 summary: after escaping the confines of prestige academy you find yourself singing at 'morpheus' - an underground bar and club for strictland outcasts. except this reality, too, crumbles before you. your fate is again in the hands of the same man, and you are forced to ask yourself: what does it mean to 'feel alive'? 🌑 wordcount: 9.5k total 🌑 warnings/tags: semi-edited, authoritarian regime (strictland/z/universe z), lore-inspired, guns/gunshots, implied attack on club, implied violence, crime, alcohol/drinking, implied organised criminal networks, discussions about death/murder/execution, nihilism/existentialism, 'bout as dark as the diary entries, long lost lovers, starcrossed, hope, blue bird, jazz, uprisings 🌑 taglist: at the bottom of the fic 🌑 a/n: noir hwa, ateez synthwave song quartet, and lore ponderings. hope you enjoyed <3 any notes, reblogs, comments, asks are always welcome! much love!

The lights dimmed, and it was as if the jazz bar never existed in the first place. The worn seats occupied by drunks who liked to pretend they had taste, sofas in the far corner reserved for big shots and well-established scum with pretty young accessories on either arm, the bar that sold everything under the rays of the dying sun and evil moon, it all disappeared with the dawn of the spotlight falling upon your alluring silhouette. A simple, yet elegant sleek black dress with a hint of shimmer that graced your curves seemed to shine in the glimmering illumination. The delicate silver accessories were stars in the hypnotising sky, the allure of an unreachable universe becoming overwhelming as your hands glided over the length of the microphone to find purchase on the stand. The music, starting from a low rumble, was an echo of the abyss surrounding you, manifested only at the softest inhale. After what could have been the drums and trumpet, or could have been the heavens announcing the beautiful singer’s presence finished their spontaneous introduction, Seonghwa had the pleasure of forgetting his purpose, at least for as long as the song lasted. He could drift into a sultry paradise, seduced by what had to be a siren’s call, and regard the customers of the Morpheus bar with something less than loathing.

As soon as he cleared the last of the russet coloured drink he had ordered in one gulp and set the glass down on the bar, shutting his eyes momentarily to focus on the warmth of the alcohol running down his throat, Seonghwa found the fingers of his right hand softly drumming out the song in accompaniment, each digit hitting one note, another, again and again. Back in the day, it had not been often that his visits to the bar occurred at the same time as the one and only Y/N’s performances, but when they did, he swore he could see the smog clear and tomorrow become a certainty. The music consumed him whole and even though he knew down to the second when the magic would be extinguished, a part of him still retained the hope that the spell would never be broken. Not when the only encore he could guarantee for himself was another torturous raid on an establishment such as this one, or another feverish witch hunt for those who had regained their ability to feel and to think freely. All in the name of a faceless leader who even Seonghwa himself had only met a handful of times despite being in a high ranking position of Guardian Inspector - above the standard white-clad machines, above the so-called officials clad in military uniform, he was in charge of ‘keeping civil hands clean’. At what cost? Perhaps his own emotions were the price.

The dark-haired man caught himself wondering how many people in this bar could enjoy themselves to the fullest. How many of these poor unfortunate souls that succumbed to the rush for easy money and easy love were true followers of hedonism, and were spending their days in an enviable bliss? Biting his lower lip, Seonghwa regarded his surroundings with a subtle scorn. He was well aware that he was to blame for it all too; The regime, to retain the ultimate, unwavering control over the citizens, even those who wholeheartedly believed they were well-hidden from the authoritarian judgement, was a supplier of one of the many pleasures after all - toying with people's weakness before the formidable seven sins only to lead them into full submission. The Strictland government, despite propagating ‘human emotion being a disease’ had anything anyone could ever desire, and Seonghwa was one of the many agents to guarantee long term partnerships, addiction to the illusion of a better life, and most importantly, stability and security for the people who had taken him in all that time ago when no one else would, and had given him a chance.

While he was the bringer of demise, the counter of profits drenched in crushing dread and the hand of twisted and subjective justice, at the same time, Seonghwa believed that it gave him all the more right to judge the society he was a part of. After all, he was not the one being fooled. Inevitably, his glimmering orbs settled back on the singer’s gently swaying form as they broke into the chorus, and nearly shuddered as your gaze, from languid, half-lidded but oh so appealing eyes, met his, only for a split second but it was as if hellfire itself embraced him and greeted him like an old lover. Each lyric - a personal address as you moved along at a sensual pace, the song smoother than the most expensive silk. He smirked to himself as he caught his ponderings accelerating uncontrollably, attempting to squash them under a sober, calculating fist. You were no fool either. An entertainer, measuring out each attack like a venomous serpent, not threatened, seeking fun in the reveal of vulnerability of your listeners - each one believed that you existed for them and them alone, and in the hypnotic state added bill after bill to their already hefty tips in the hopes that at least some would reach you, and you would give them that beautiful smile, maybe something more. Truly, a shame that the owner of Morpheus owed the regime a lot more than all the tips, so-called donations and what, compared to the rest of the money, was "honest" earnings all combined. The Captain of the Inspectors in charge of this little project had gotten a little too nice as of late, at least that was what Seonghwa had concluded, but it was not him who was going to pay for it, naturally.

Twisting his head, Seonghwa took note of the familiar faces that appeared at the entrance to Morpheus to join the rest of the Inspectors that were posing as regular customers, cleverly dispersed among the filth that reeked of dependence. Of course, dependence on what the regime was selling. There was no other way about it. Nodding the two men a curt hello, Seonghwa let his eyes trace back a swift path to the magnificent performance. He paid attention to how your dainty earrings glinted even in the lowered light, and how, with every subtle movement, he could see the gorgeous dress tighten just a little around your body. You were so out of place in this scene, an angel in the darkest pits of hell, a little bird struggling against the wiring of a cage, curling inwards, growing smaller until the last flutter of the wings. As he was caught up in admiring your beautiful style, grace, and listening to your sweet, warm tone, one of the two newcomers, a fellow brother in governmental salvation to Seonghwa, tapped him lightly on the shoulder and occupied the seat beside him.

“As flashy as ever, Woo. Might as well tattoo ‘trouble’ on your forehead,” he motioned towards his not so inconspicuous suit that made him look more like a mafioso rather than an average joe. Seonghwa had to admit, however, that the outfit looked too damn good on him, but this was going to be just one of those things he was to take to his grave. The man did not need his ego fed any more than what the ladies he finds as company for the less busy nights not hounded by the lower ranking Guardians provide.

“I’d carve a pretty smile on that face. Not even a hello?”

“Hi San,” Seonghwa deadpanned, looking past his friend who he noted had tied his hair into a low ponytail, and right at the other half of his duo. Wooyoung and San, two peas in a pod, and probably the last people one would ever wish to see if they were in trouble with any of the Inspectors.

“Aren’t you mean today… what, pretty star over there didn’t give you attention?” Wooyoung retorted with a smirk creeping onto his lips. With a raise of an eyebrow and a shake of the head, Seonghwa dismissed any thoughts of peace that he had been imagining, settling back to regular business.

Rolling his shoulders back, he let the scene come and envelop him. It was no coincidence that so many of the Inspectors had gathered, especially with Wooyoung and San now closing in the arrivals. It did not take a genius to guess that Captain had changed his terms, and this was no longer going to be an ordinary shakeout for money or customary information gathering from the owner of Morpheus. The owner had stalled for far too long, had strayed from ‘good practices’ of a loyal rat, and it was time to set an example for others. Disease was the human emotion, and this bar was a breeding ground for thought crime, was it not?. Lowly, lonely creatures who gathered here were all examples of where society had gone astray from the perfect vision Z had put forward, at least… most were. Those who had forgotten the meaning of feeling despite having regained the ability, those, to Seonghwa, were the true vermin. He regarded the few gathered who were most definitely not meant to be part of this story. A middle aged, haggard man with flushed cheeks and what had to be his fifth glass of the cheapest liquor on the menu. Some bigshot from another town who he recalled some of the Inspectors in charge of patrolling the area identifying this morning - no ties, no money, just a lot of ambition that was to amount to nothing. A few lowlives here and there who were faceless, in shades of grey. All not meant to be here, and yet by some stroke of fate, here they were to remain. Finally, he drifted back to the main act, still at the centre of the stage, the sole luminance among the tainted - those who had no hope in making Seonghwa feel anything but numbness. You were the only one working here. Earning your meagre pay - he had discreetly checked the bar’s balance books when the old man behind the counter was too distracted to care for a person of his kind strolling into his office that was concealed in a dark corridor. It was shameful how you were still in this far less than grand establishment, sharing your angelic vocals, despite obviously not having any compensation nor appreciation of your efforts. Perhaps the moments on stage were the only time when you felt alive; the thought would not leave Seonghwa. After much investigation playing pretend, he was confident in his conclusion: you had not changed.

You were on the tattered poster plastered up outside - the one and only, shows every Friday night. Perceive and behold the spectacular ethereal being as you sang songs that spun threads out of a spectator’s very soul, blood trickling from the cracks in their shattered form turning to gold. You sang their… his pain, promised him his glory, soothed and comforted him. Seonghwa was well aware that you were the sole reason that he had shifted his visits to Morpheus to this particular day of the week and monitored the illegal location so closely, otherwise, your face would never grace his corrupt, bleak vision. You did not deserve to go with the rest. When breaking free, one was not supposed to fall into another trap, and yet, here you were. You were not meant to be here, littering the ground that you stood on as the last of the gunpowder would settle on your perfect skin, your long, alluring eyelashes. The onyx-haired man felt a shift within himself as he mused the outcome of the unspoken plans - by the way in which Wooyoung leaned back onto the counter, a grin dancing on his features and by the way San was acting particularly kindhearted to the lonely staff who was rushing about, struggling to keep up with the visitors’ habits, he knew that tonight, they were not planning on hearing any cries for mercy. They were here to complete a mission for a higher purpose. And that mission was far from the sweet music which he had loved his whole life, and finally found again.

“They’re not supposed to be here.” he mumbled, his voice obscured by yours, echoing across and elevating to a sensual culmination.

“Aren’t we all? We’ve got to do what we’ve got to do. Think of them as a sculpture or something if it makes things easier,” Wooyoung took out a rolled up bill to put between his lips - a habit that he had formed after a few too many hits on the back of his head by San, an interesting approach to make a man quit smoking. He called it ‘smoking capitalism’, earning quite a few chuckles from the Inspectors, Seonghwa included.

“So say someone’s going to scope the ring to clean it up a bit, would you let them hit our favourite auntie?” he asked, referring to the friendly cleaner who was probably the only one in the entire city who did not bat an eye at the violent matches that Wooyoung managed under the wraps for the regime, instead cooing over the fighters he brokered for and giving the men an extra helping of her home-cooked delicacies. In many ways, she was a mother figure for the Guardian Inspectors, despite her being at risk, every day, of being taken to the Red Humans should one of them be in a ‘different kind of mood’ on an arbitrary morning.

“Definitely not. But this singer. Who are they to you?”

“A pawn.”

“A pawn?”

“Mhm. I can pawn them in for rewards.”

“Suppose they are pretty enough, if that’s what you’re thinking of…”

“Goodness, take the pimp out of the bordello but can’t take the bordello out of the pimp. That business was shut a while back for you, no?” with a groan, Seonghwa retaliated at Wooyoung’s rather out of pocket suggestions. Over the many years of serving Z in not so ethical ways, the man had tried on a few too many hats and seen a few too many hats to retain even a sliver of compassion towards anyone except those closest. It was understandable. Odd, but understandable.

“Kidding. But for real though, what’s the use?” Wooyoung bit down on the bill softly, gaze following San who had moved towards a couple of underlings that had gathered in a booth off to the side, towards the far corner of the bar. Clearly, he was checking if they had read the room.

“Say, isn’t it Captain’s niece’s birthday soon? We don’t exactly have a musical act to hand since…” Seonghwa trailed off, knowing that Wooyoung knew what incident he was referring to, involving an accusatory phrase, a short temper and a very professional shot from a sniper rifle from the boss’s office window into the temple of a figure that was storming away from one of the many Inspector accommodations. Another one to fertilise the soil with.

“Smart. I’ll give it to ya. If you sort the business out before showtime, pretty thing’s all yours.” Wooyoung responded, patting his side where, underneath his shirt, Seonghwa knew was a holstered pistol. Pushing himself away from the counter he stood up, adjusting his long, leather coat and glove. It was not that he had a particular preference, but ever since entering the new life upon being pardoned for feeling, a life where he had to say found a home, he could not help but wish to always look just that little bit more put together, even if only to appear loyal.

“Cheers. I’ll get them a nice candle-lit dinner to soften them up and then inform Cap’,” sounding purposefully sarcastic, Seonghwa mumbled under his nose, well aware that this was not a method that had ever been in use. One glower and curt phrase had always been enough - the rest was simply the heart’s doing masked by odd humour.

“Awh, look at you, how sweet and lovely. What a darling,” Wooyoung teased, sending Seonghwa a wink. The music was fading away, the last notes landing on his ears, marking every moment.

“One more word and you’ll be the main course.” with his index finger he poked the centre of his fellow Inspector’s chest in threat, maintaining a cold expression.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I’m going to be roasting out here tonight, so make it hot with pretty thing.”

“Filth,” the taller man spat, knowing that attempting to counter his friend was nearly impossible - out of all the people he knew only Captain could fully round him in, and even then Wooyoung had a smile on his face, much to Seonghwa’s confusion.

“It’s not me who is with the heart eyes.”

“I just saw an opportunity,” playing with the leather piece that buttoned up to protect his neck, he eyed you, waiting for you to finish. Unknown to you, you did not have much time left before your very life would be placed on a scale and thoughtlessly pushed to lose against the weight of usual Strictland business. Such was the violent, catastrophic illusion of order, such was the structure that had been Seonghwa’s twisted saving grace. He was going to be doing you a favour by taking you away, won’t he? Either way, you would be out of work, and he was helping you with a little job search from one of the highest payers - chivalrous and kind hearted, that was who he was. How else could the Inspectors form any partnerships and feast on forbidden fruit otherwise? Who was he kidding - a soul like you was not meant for a life like this. But he had to try. He needed time to think.

“Sure. Sure. An opportunity to grab the gorgeous star for yourself.”

“Oh shut up will you?” snapping, Seonghwa were desperately trying to cut the conversation short, seeing the window for him to make a beeline for the edge of the stage, towards which you promptly setting off after finishing your set, and receiving a dismal lack of applause - what else would he expect from the crowd gathered in Morpheus? Especially when the stench of iron and the final judgement was mere minutes away from materialising.

“You know that’s not my style.”

“Yeah, yeah. Be good. Hope you did not block my mustang,” throwing one last comment behind him, the solemn man was off, only barely catching Wooyoung’s half-hearted response.

“Have I ever…”

The mission was simple. Since he was dismissed from the less than pleasant task of wiping out the bar, considering that two more senior Inspectors had made their appearance and were clearly more in the know of what was brewing, Seonghwa had only a couple of minutes before all freedom would cease to exist. And then, no heaven could bestow mercy upon neither him, nor the beauty he had come here to save for no logical reason, instead relying on some hazy version of hope and nostalgia. He had parked his ink black ride around the block - out of sight for unwanted eyes, and perfectly positioned for getaways just like this. If you could catch the Inspector’s drift, that was. One could only pray that the dazzler on stage was just as dazzling when it came to reading between the lines. He had perhaps even less than the estimated time to explain himself before Wooyoung and San would call the owner over to get the real evening show started. Time was ticking along with the skyrocketing pace of his heart as he stopped you on your tracks with a slightly outstretched leg, only to move forward and cast a shadow over you.

It was difficult to remain level-headed when, even at such proximity, in the normally less than flattering lighting, you were nothing short of a deity. Something out of fairy tales, stories of royalty or angels in kingdoms far far away, those that were not supposed to exist. But here was one, staring right into his eyes with your beautiful expressive orbs, as deep as the history that Seonghwa had raced here to try and reignite. A universe in your irises, an all-consuming black hole in your pupils, beckoning Seonghwa, leading him into a stupor before he stuffed his hands into his pockets, bringing himself out of the momentary trance by force. Time was not on his side, and he knew that it would never be unless he kept on running.

“Lovely song, that was.”

“Indeed. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is one of my favourites. Did you enjoy the performance?” Your speaking voice was different, of course, but nonetheless struck that stunning familiar chord within Seonghwa, one that should never see the light of day if he were to remain how he had to be. It was terrifying, how he was ready to let go of his resurrected image as an Inspector for a chance to turn the past into the present.

You were polite. The features of your alluring face were hinting at a genuine interest, an appreciation of every movement, every breath you were taking. Though, in Seonghwa’s own line of work, particularly in the stage of undercover investigation, this was simply the usual. Show a smile, bat the eyelashes, make business, disappear. Genuine interest was an artform, but even if you were indeed expressing it in the way with which he was familiar, it felt so natural that he almost wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe this daydream who had come to change the colours of his occasional Fridays, his hunts for those straying from what Z had deemed ‘right’, leaving glimmers of memory to last him through the weeks when he had to be numb to life itself until he could come and see you again. It did not mean much to you, most likely. You were strangers in your respective new lives, and had Captain not made the decision to teach the owner of Morpheus a lethal lesson, you would have remained that way. Drifting together for a few hours, remaining distant, and drifting apart again. A forever flowing story that was to rekindle a starcrossed ‘once upon a time’ but never have that sought after resolution. A dream that reminded Seonghwa of why his unlikely survival was a blessing. As your eyes revealed a hopefulness, a plea for praise, Seonghwa gave you a soft smile.

“Of course.”

“I look forward to seeing you, you know.”

“O-oh?” Seonghwa could barely contain his surprise, the previously cool demeanour cracking into a raised eyebrow. Could you remember?

“Yes! You always sit at the bar, second stool from the left. And order… what is it… a brandy, right?”

He would be lying if he were to say he was not surprised by your suddenly chipper attitude. Almost like you were a kid who entered a candy shop for the first time to see all of your favourite treats, you excitedly revealed to Seonghwa your observations. While it was endearing to see, the shuffling behind him, along with the idea that he was not the only one intently observing left the Inspector with a sense of unease, nearly throwing him off from the initial goal that motivated him to brave talking to you in the first place.

“In…deed?”

The singer, who was previously an astounding yet distant figure captivating all who cared to look even once, rapidly transitioned into someone who he almost found endearing, the keeper of far too many qualities that cemented the rightness of his decision. You were not meant to be here, he repeated to himself. Mutters around the bar were getting louder, and as the rest of the musicians filed out of the main hall and crammed into a tiny room off to the side, in Seonghwa’s peripherals he noted San’s steady, seemingly innocent amble between the scuffed round tables and equally unpleasantly antique chairs.

“You are the only one who listens, so, how could I not notice? Actually, I wanted to talk to you properly, or at least say thank you but didn’t want to impose.”

As much as he wanted to sink into the warmth of your words and allow you to recognise him on your own accord, the rippling commotion that was finally rearing its ugly head spurred him on and struck his heart with an icy, calculating mace. He had a minute tops, knowing Wooyoung’s love for never counting down to zero before beginning.

“Well, let’s talk. Outside,” The black-clad man tried to walk off, aiming for the dark corridor at the end of which was the fire exit, but when you did not move, rolled his eyes.

“I was thinking I could buy you a drink-”

“Cute. Another time though,” seeing the tinge of disappointment in your gaze was new, and entirely unexpected, but gave Seonghwa plenty of leeway to sway you into following him, “since you watched me enough, I bet you can guess who I am. Or, what I do for work. Right?”

A steely glare, leaving nothing open to interpretation. For additional evidence, he demonstratively adjusted his coat, loosening the belt he had tied around his waist to reveal a leather holster, discreet, gun always within reach. Attentive to detail as ever, you took note of the inconspicuous design of the pistol before he let it disappear once again under the fabric - in this city, there were few who had access to any form of weaponry, the items being so highly regulated by the government that it was nearly impossible to purchase or get licensing. Your mind began to list off options; Seonghwa clearly was neither a standard Android Guardian due to the lack of mandatory uniform, nor a scruffy criminal whom you had gotten used to over the time that had passed, nor part of the police force, nor a Class 2 Prestige Academy student. It only left an answer that shook you to the core. Of course, it was not that you did not hold the assumption in your heart. As a matter of fact, you had previously assumed that you were used to greeting people from different walks of life, all gathered in the same place, at the same time for what you wanted to believe was a ‘good time’. That was what drove you to live the life that you were living. Exist in this space, despite your pay and your security almost always not being enough, but you would give even that up if that meant you could keep your freedom.

Seonghwa was effortlessly graceful, determined in every step and gesture, not a single movement wasted. In a sense, it was as if he had purposefully learned and memorised the most efficient adjustments of the body, letting himself metamorphose into a lithe, agile animal. It was terrific, and terrifying, how at any moment he could pounce, and you would never know when until it was too late. For this hint of a reason, you decided to follow the man’s unspoken command, only whispering an airy inquiry after the other musicians, which he coldly dismissed:

“You need a better band anyways.”

---

The gravity of the situation only began to settle in when the biting breeze outside of the stuffy bar hit you, seeking opportunity to tousle your locks. The strands that had managed to fall over your face were trembling, the only sign revealing your suppressed distress as the last of Morpheus's dusk-like illumination was shut from your vision with a confident slam. Your eyes widened as you watched the Inspector, or in other words, your personal grim reaper, flip a lock on the door - previously thought to be inaccessible to anyone except the owner, done so masterfully as though he were the one who had installed it in the first place. An exit, a saving grace for innocents inside, turned into a dead end - more symbolic than one would ever initially assume. He trailed up the length of his arm stopping for a moment at the material that covered his shoulder, listening to leather hit leather. Seonghwa could only find calculated resolve within himself. This was the usual for him, and that after weighing all the options, he had logically come to the conclusion that the demise of the people inside was indeed the most attractive option.

As you heard the first shot resound inside of Morpheus, you shuddered, but did not dare stop following the man in the trench coat as he strode on ahead, hands remaining in his pockets. To any onlooker it would seem that he was relaxed as ever, out for a late night walk in a neighbourhood he knew better than he knew himself. Breath in, breath out; you were trying to remind yourself of the simple act, focusing harder than you had ever done during your performances. Imagining your diaphragm stretching, letting the lungs take in as much air as possible and-

Another shot. Breath knocked from you, balance off kilter, you desperately wanted to run. Anywhere. Maybe you should have stayed, not picked up on the subtle offer of your life being spared. In that way you would not have to live with the guilt of not having said anything to your fellow bandmates, not having said thank you to the owner for… what was there to thank anyone for? Out of habit, you lifted a hand to brush over your ear, echoes of the time when you had first felt emotion rippling across your body, making you shiver. You were all fools misled by hope for a brighter tomorrow in a world that was permanently overcast. Where did this running lead you? Where did your wistful song guide you? Back into the arms of the apocalypse - broad-shouldered with hair the colour of ink, the last thing you would see before disappearing for good. At least you should thank your former so-called colleagues for the information about the common demise. Tears welled up in your eyes as you obeyed the lean man’s orders and practically toppled into the black vehicle parked by the Morpheus, a lonesome yelp masked by the gunfire and indecipherable orders.

You had no idea where he was taking you, and you did not dare ask. The man reminded you of all you had been trained to avoid in your new life, a threat, a weapon, a soldier. His gloved right hand remained resting beside the gearshift, while his left coldly gripped the steering wheel. Not a single one of his muscles appeared to be relaxed, and not a single movement had a semblance to anything natural. An automaton in the driver’s seat, you wanted to feel comforted by the idea that you were the only one truly human in the car, for the idea that someone as brutal as a Guardian Inspector could be conscious or decisive was too strong of an agony.

At the same time, in the moments where the Inspector turned his head to check the surroundings, you noted something familiar. He dashed past the blue, purple and aquamarine signs that lined the streets of the district you had learned to love, himself turning into a painting. Be it in the angles that formulated his stern face, or in the elegance that he was unable to conceal, the past crawled out of a long-forgotten cavern in your psyche and gnawed at your nerves, just out of reach of realisation. Perhaps in another time, you had known him. Perhaps in one of the banned art pieces, you had seen him. At the same time, this could not be the first Guardian Inspector you had encountered - they were all similar enough in demeanour, so what was another face? Equally as entitled, above the law. Above a runaway like you. You were vermin. The enemy. A traitor to the Academy, to Strictland, to Z himself. Or so you were told. The only thing that could be different about this Inspector, was that he could be your last.

A sharp stabbing sensation spread from your temples and what had to be through your skull, jabbing into bone and into the cerebellum. Nauseous, you shut your eyes and clutched your head in a futile attempt to seek some form of relief. The car roared, and a sudden stench of rubber and concrete penetrated through every crevice, choking your senses and making you taste the acrid pollution. One turn, another, your organs were being jolted back and forth as the monstrous engine urged on by none other than the embodiment of oblivion dragged the car across eternal misery of long-abandoned districts.

“Oh goodness…” a feeble whisper left your lips. You reached out to grab hold of the door handle, peering at the grooves to find at least something to focus on. His vision was swimming in your eyes, etchings of your surroundings morphing into repressed memories.

A boy marching beside you to class, head held at the angle commanded to all academy students. A young man, dressed in all white with black locks parted in the middle. A solemn stare, unreadable, though not fully blank as it should be. But at the same time, how could you, another student of Prestige, detect that something was not quite right? Since when could you feel? You lifted your head cautiously to try peeking at the Inspector again, but he was frozen. Only the abrupt tightening of his gloved hand around the steering wheel and a determined turn reminded you that he was not quite an automaton.

“I must be dreaming…” you blinked away a teary blur, and clenched onto your dress for the remainder of the journey, feverishly recounting whatever lyrics you could. Your little safe haven, your precious prayers to the arts - truth which you had discovered after abandoning everything you could have been.

Your hand moved on instinct to the side of your head, feeling for what once had been the hub of your consciousness. A chip that made you feel right at home, heartless, but with a purpose. Forty years of education, an eternity to serve something greater than you; clear goals, a mission for your generation and many that would come after you. Hand in hand, you were soldiers of a catastrophically closed-minded society; at the time, however, you could not be ‘happier’. Or rather, more numb. Because you did not know of negative nor positive, you could not experience either, and so remained in a stable equilibrium, just as the superpower of this forlorn land had instructed. Disease was the human emotion. You were ‘healthy’. Until that boy appeared in your life, and revealed himself to you.

Bright-eyed, hopeful, excited. So unlike anyone. And against better judgement, you let the inklings of curiosity drip over your heart, and the beginnings of affection take flight. Dark hair, dark eyes, tanned skin, a smile brighter than the sun, a soothing mellifluous voice, vowing to you that you could build another life together. A life much more beautiful than one constructed with deception and hollow propaganda. What could a little tap of a breaker do to you? Apparently, it could change your destiny.

As you massaged your temples, you locked gazes with the man in front of you, but met the boy from your past in the mirror. That same worry, knotted eyebrows, concern and care so evident you could touch it if your fingers grazed his cheek. You could not move, even when he turned back to the road, and continued to stare at the rear view mirror in the hopes of seeing your daydream again. You had to be wrong. This had to be you hallucinating. You must be just… afraid. Out of your mind. And so you were recalling one of the few times when you thought the world could do you no harm.

“Get out,” a command. As cold as steel. The engine was still roaring in your ears, despite the surroundings having gone dead silent.

A click. The doors unlocked. You could run if you wanted to. Though you were fully aware that the action would shorten your lifespan to a mere few seconds. You remained seated, gaze falling onto your lap, and listened to the painful succession of sounds that led the man to open your door, and roughly grab your upper arm.

“I said, get out,” you followed him like a rag doll, knowing that any attempts to resist would put you into even more danger. At the same time, even though the Inspector was obviously attempting to instil terror and a twisted respect for him, he could not face you. Consciously he made an effort to barely raise his lashes, thus keeping his scrutiny concealed. Reading through his hesitation was easy enough.

He could not keep his hand on you for a second longer after you stood up straight, darting away as though you were an open flame. The man cleared his throat and locked the car, before gesturing towards an abandoned building that loomed over the gravelly opening where you had completed your journey. Comically, it reminded you of Prestige, even though the latter was of much larger proportions and possessed a more unique shape. Perhaps it was the fact that this block, what used to be an apartment building, was crumbling, made you think of the academy’s inner workings. Rotting away. The cogs in the machine tearing each other apart.

This might be your end or your beginning, you were not sure which one. With an astounding loyalty, you let yourself be guided into the long-forgotten cement fortress, up exposed stairs with metal railings, past walls left bare, illuminated by an exposed moonlight, laying down a carpet of silver. It was oddly easy to think that life was beautiful when it was likely going to be taken away from you. The walk was silent, and the longer it lasted, the more at peace you felt. The odd step rang out and echoed like the gunshots you had heard, so surreal that you could barely believe it. It must have been a joke. Fireworks, or someone just being a little boisterous. Morpheus had seen so many colours of Z’s regime, it could not disappear now… oh who were you kidding. It was done for. You little version of an escape. Your space to feel.

As you made sneaky glances at the Inspector to your right, who not so ceremoniously had loosened his coat’s belt once more to have easy access to his gun, you could not help but think of the boy. You had followed his advice, made a run for it while he had been taken away by the Red Humans. Two youngsters who betrayed the regime. But who was truly free? The one who had been exterminated, or the one who had to live in fear, but at least felt the ruthless emotion?

The enigmatic man slowed down, and so did you. He made a turn, so did you, acting as his shadow. You were certain that you were probably breathing at the same rate. An empty hallway, lined with equally empty rooms and destroyed apartments. From a humble abode to rubble, you could see the horrific vistas of the district, and the drop to the cold ground below. No wall, no security, no certainty. It was only you and your fate in the form of a man who seemed to possess too much of a likeness to the keeper of your fragile adoration.

The Inspector walked in front and turned to face you. You froze, burning under his scrutiny. Eyes like scalding cold ice, assessing you, condemning you. Your best listener, now listening to your terrified heart. For what could be the last time, you felt alive. As the man reached into his pocket, you prepared for the worst, however, he only motioned with his head for you to follow him. Confused, you obeyed, finding yourself in a more secluded corner of the floor, one which had remotely retained the appearance of an actual room. Stuck in the same few seconds, there were no further commands from the Inspector, causing your mind to wander, and lips to move on their own accord:

“I should not be here.”

“Neither should I,” he deadpanned, though his choice of words was unsettling. Wasn’t he on a mission?

“I should be dead,” you persisted.

“I should have more blood on my hands.”

A pause. You were in shock, pointlessly clinging onto your own upper arms, stuck in a false embrace. Like prey that had been cornered, you were beyond the point of trusting survival instincts. You simply wanted for the interaction, or dare you say, interrogation, to be over, so you could be given away to the Red Humans, to whatever the afterlife had to offer, in peace. If you were to be melted, then so be it. If your departure were to be short and sweet, so be it. But a little question in your head still remained, a persistent worm which you decided to unleash given your hopeless circumstances:

“Then why-”

“It is pointless to ask when there is no answer,” the man answered coldly, not sparing you a glance as he picked at a filthy off-white tulle which covered a blown out window - now just a frame, with his gloved hand, glaring at the pitiful greyness outside the abandoned building before wiping the hand off with a handkerchief produced out of the pocket into which he had stuffed his hand.

A few steps separated you, but you knew better than to try and make a run for it – the man was armed, and you assumed that the gun you spotted was not the only weapon in his arsenal. He was menacing, unpredictable, and very dangerous. Alongside that, as much as you hated to admit, but the Inspectors were nothing short of extraordinary when it came to their expertise and training. Unlike Android Guardians, they were the leading forces, capable of high-risk decision making and unparalleled critical thinking. If you were to try to describe them, you always ended up thinking of chess. That was what they were playing whenever they were out in the field.

In fact, it was for this exact reason that you were concerned about this Inspector’s behaviour – it was out of line. Inefficient. Sub-optimal. You wondered if this was a new strategy or there was a higher plan; there were so many possibilities that your head could start spinning. You dug your fingers into rapidly cooling flesh, waking yourself up from the distressed rumination. What was the Inspector going to do to you? You had followed his demands so far, and weren’t putting up a fight - what more could he want?

He was unreadable. Gestures unpredictable, expression stoic, he regarded you with an air of superiority characteristic of people from his class. Serpent-like and calculating eyes, regal nose, facial structure reminiscent of a statue, plush perfectly shaped lips – all were a nod to his upbringing, you bet. He did not feel real. Reminiscent of automatons that the regime sometimes used in place of regular Guardians during high-volume riots, he was what one would call the ‘ideal specimen’. Down to the strand of wavy hair that fell on his face, he was a beautiful painting of your worst nightmare. Life had been unkind to you, you decided. It only showed you something prettier than the night lights when it was the last thing you would see.

The man stepped towards you, and your eyelids slammed shut automatically. You did not wish to see your death. The sound of leather against leather, the tied coat belt, the creaking of ancient rotten wood planks under lacquered ankle boots. He must be getting ready to end you. Were you too high profile to be lying with the other bodies in the club? Were you more dangerous in the Inspector’s view, being a singer, or as one could say a ‘spreader’ of inappropriate entertainment. Was this treason? Terrorism? You were not sure – the sentence changed more than the weather. But were you an enemy? With confidence, you had to answer with a Yes. Having escaped the regime, and according to those who had helped you regain some parts of your past self, having had a part in the uprising within Prestige Academy, you were the worst kind of citizen of Strictland. Disobedient, unchanging, and influential. You were waiting for the cocking of a pistol, for cool metal to hit your head, and for the world to go even darker as you collapsed on to the floorboards. The man had to be taking out his gun. He must have taken you away from the raid to be particularly ruthless. A sadist? Maybe. You had no time to judge.

You felt the fabric of your shimmering dress under your fingertips, and imagined you were preparing for a show of a lifetime. You counted your inhales and exhales like you would do before a performance, and conjured an audience in your mind. More rustling, another step. He, that boy, no, young man, was in the audience. Still in the Prestige Academy uniform, but the chip was long gone. He was giving you an encouraging smile eager to hear what you had achieved in your time away from the academy. Leather caressed your hand and you flinched, comforted only by how cautious the action was. Hand turned to raise your palm to the omniscient skies, your illusions combined with reality - what was Seonghwa to give to you?

Funny, how in critical moments, the mind could give you what you had longed to forget. Seonghwa. His name tasted sweet, with a bitter aftertaste. A fine wine, dizzying, addictive. A handsome, talented student who had the future ahead of him, only to throw it away for the taste of something more ‘real’ in his eyes. Something cold was being pressed into your palm, reminiscent of a large bullet or a device your fingers could remember before your mind. Your eyes shot open and were met with a dream and a nightmare. Finally, it hit you. Behind the Inspector’s facade, a mask crafted by years of experience and brutality, was the same boy, who, just like now, pressed a breaker into your palm.

“Wake up.”

Your gaze fell to the intricate metal handiwork, spotting the carving of an ‘A’ contained in a circle right at the base. The taste of anarchy, an uprising, revolution, a hope for something better flowing through a tragic story you two had written. At last, it had a resolution, and you were more than content with who was holding the lethal pen. You stared at the breaker. The very thing that brought you out of an eternal somnolence, submission to a regime. You had woken up then, and never could sleep.

“Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer… the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…” you lifted your head once more, staring into Seonghwa’s softened eyes. He had matured, his features having become siren-like, dangerous, seductive. Befitting his character. You smiled sadly, “...or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and, by opposing end them?” He remained quiet, as if he was the one waiting for you to decide your own destiny, “Shakespeare. Hamlet. Ever read it? Or do they not let you?”

“I-” he cleared his throat, concealing a pang of nervousness, “I am familiar with his work.”

“Mm, isn’t that a criminal offence?”

“What is?”

“Reading work exploring human emotion… sounds like treason to me.”

“Reading does not imply sympathising.”

“But you do.”

Again, a heavy pause. Seonghwa rocked from one foot to another one time, another - an old habit? Or an attempt to convince you that he was at least a fraction the same?

“I… I do not,” before you could scowl, he continued, “‘Cowards die many times before their deaths. The valiant never taste of death but once’. I am more partial to this way of thinking.”

“Ah, the irony of it all.”

Your hand formed a fist around the device, and you kept on searching for fragments of the man you loved inside of the new Seonghwa before you. In flashes, you spotted glimmers of gold, feeble hints for something that could be concealed in the depths of his soul.

“So, are you going to make me a valiant person?”

“What?”

“Wasn’t that what you were supposed to be doing?” feeling a little more brave, you taunted him, wishing to see what his limit was. Whether he was lying to you just to set you at ease and make his job easier. So he could see one final sense of betrayal in your pupils.

“We are already dead, Y/N.”

---

Music. A universal language. The biggest risk for a community that someone wanted to silence. So you hummed one song after another, head leaning against Seonghwa’s shoulder as you sat on the concrete floor, in the corner of the room that was barely holding itself together. Bathed in silver light, you shared with him the luxury of reminiscing, mourned what had been lost only to have the feeling be replaced by a budding desire to wish upon anything at all.

Seonghwa might have lied to many of the Inspectors, and was in danger of facing a fate worse than extermination, but at least he did not lie to you. And because he did not lie to you, you were here; you were real. He could have the pleasure of having you beside him, wrapped up in his leather coat; your dress was not exactly ‘inhospitable conditions’ material, as pretty and befitting as it was. You were refusing to let go of the breaker as though it was the tether to a more sunny past, not that Seonghwa would ever dare pry it out of your hands. So long as you could keep singing for him forever. Even when music were to cease existing, and when the sky would fall down, he would still hear your voice. How many times had he visited Morpheus in secret, outside of his official inspections and scouting missions? How quickly had he transferred into a field role just for the chance to find you? How had he managed to remain alive even though his sentence had been supposedly set in stone, and he was still feeling? With each question, the answer grew blurrier and blurrier, until it no longer existed. Perhaps this was a manifestation of destiny. You were supposed to meet again after so much turmoil, so you did. Curious.

“What song do you like?” your voice, sleepy, serene, cut through his ruminations. Seonghwa looked down and to his side, meeting a gentle gaze.

“What song do you want to sing?”

“Mm, no that’s not an answer,” you snaked your hands around his arm and pulled him closer.

“But I like everything you sing. Because you sing it.”

“Sweet, but I’m at a loss.”

“Then let’s be quiet. Together. For as long as we can.”

“There’s not too long left, is there?”

Your question was rhetorical. Both you and Seonghwa were aware of it. Time in Strictland was not governed by the individual but by an unforgiving system. A person, or perhaps a symbol, holding the clock with an iron grip and making the hands fly faster and faster until a second was an impossible measure. Involuntarily, he sighed, causing wisps of steam to escape his lips and rise to the exposed armature of the floor above. With cooling temperatures came the cooling heart, and it was difficult to tell what it was that you loved. What was it that made you feel alive?

“You know, they gave me a choice,” Seonghwa began. There was no reason why he should be telling you about what had happened to him, but the sombre atmosphere seemed to bode well for a confession. You did not interrupt, choosing to remain passive, resigned, “either die for what I believe in, or admit I was wrong.”

“Funny how they gave you a choice,” the infamous ‘they’. The Guardians, the regime, the enemy. Now turned into a friend. Interesting how life changed.

“Definitely was not what I expected.”

“You sure they didn’t say ‘sike’ at any point and you just got lucky?”

“I don’t think they can miss,” a simple, but sharp fact. You bit your lower lip, “...anyways. You can probably guess what I chose to do. The only caveat is that I admitted I was wrong… for a different thing.”

“Do tell.”

“I was wrong for putting you in danger, Y/N.”

“Nothing we could do about that. We were two fools in love.”

Seonghwa detangled himself from you, only to grasp your free hand in his, place the other on your thigh and meet you face to face. Misty-eyed, his rationality was growing frantic, and you knew that at any moment he could snap, and only the clearing night knew what would happen then.

“But I was the one to jolt you out of a peaceful existence. I was selfish-” After years of doubting himself, sinking into a destructive illusion where he would march alongside others like a machine, he was breathing. Much to his regret, it was a sensation far too sweet and heavenly, worth every revolution and rebellion.

“I don’t regret it.”

“...What?”

“I would put this thing to my head time and time again if I had to,” you raised the breaker to eye level, attempting to get at least a smile or a chuckle out of Seonghwa. Much to your dismay, it did the opposite. You would be lying if you were to proclaim you were euphoric.

“I- I’m… Y/N I’m so sorry…” you shook your head and pulled him in, until his exhales and inhales were tickling your neck. Hunched over you like a black-clad shield, Seonghwa was unmoving. Eyes darting down, you spotted that he had taken the pistol out of the holster, and upon a second glance to where he had been sitting, you noted its lonely presence, tucked away with debris and gravel.

“You are alive. And clearly still care enough to remember me. That’s your apology. And your punishment,” in a soothing gesture, you ran your fingers through his hair, cautiously at first, then turning your ministrations continuous, measured out when Seonghwa sat back down on the concrete, only this time nuzzled into you.

“Sorry…” he forced out, choking up.

The moon counted down the time while lazily passing over the building. You were at a crossroads. In haste, Seonghwa had told you of the opportunity to serve the Guardian Inspectors, being a private entertainer of sorts, but he knew you would refuse. Fast. Becoming one’s own enemy was the one thing you would not follow Seonghwa into doing. And that is why he admired you. You were strong. You were truly alive. A bird soaring in the skies in spite of the risks of being hunted, being shot. Simply for the feeling of the wind under your wings, to be closer to the stars and to sing your song loud and clear, every note a celestial blessing.

“Blue bird…”

“Hm?”

“I think I have an idea… if you are willing to go into hiding, that is.”

“Planning uprisings are we?”

“Oh they’ve been long in the works, my love. It is part of my job to close my eyes when necessary, and when convenient.”

“Are you about to be wrong again?”

“Maybe. Or very, very right. Depends on how the song sounds to you.”

---

Walking down the corridors of the headquarters, hands behind his back and appearance pristine, Seonghwa was nothing short of a model Inspector. Low ranking employees cowered before him and bowed, while his immediate colleague Wooyoung smirked, attempting to hook any information out.

“So… where'd the pretty star go?”

Silently, Seonghwa handed him a slip recording the disposal of an ‘unnamed entity’.

“ Oh… well that’s harsh. What did they do, reject you?”

“Apparently once gone so far astray, one cannot be changed. I had to do what was best for the regime.”

“Such an example for others. Wow. Almost too good to be true, Park. Well, I’ll be reporting that the extermination and cleanup of Morpheus was successful.”

“You do that.”

While Wooyoung turned the corner, Seonghwa continued to walk straight down the metal corridor, eyes locked onto the very end. Morpheus was no longer, indeed. But your song was still ringing in his ears, and no doubt, there would be a time when it would resound over the many speakers planted all across Strictland.

Blue skies smiling at me

Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song

Nothing but bluebirds all day long

Never saw the sun shining so bright

Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by

When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone

Nothing but blue skies from now on

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ponderingmoonlight · 9 months

Note

I wonder, could we request 2 prompts? Cause I had an idea where Gojo with prompt 11, how about Gojo confronting us after the whole “ Getou calling us a monkey and trying to kill us indecent” and out here searching high and low for him, driving out our physical health and mental health is decreasing. We get into an argument with him until we breakdown then prompt 66 comes in and Gojo comforts us and stays with us ( hurt with comfort is my guilty pleasure)

Oh I absolutely adore this idea, let’s do this! Let me know what you think 🖤 11. "You're not fine. You need to rest."

66. "Time for bed. Come on."

You saved me

Pairing: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader; former!Geto Suguru x reader

Word count: 2k

Synopsis: After your former boyfriend Suguru tried to kill you for being a non-jujutsu sorcerer, you fall into a deep depression. Satoru tries to reach out and help you through it, but you refuse to let him near you. Until he takes matters into his own hands.

Warnings: death, language, hurt, depression, abuse of drugs/alcohol

“He’s dead, (y/n). There was no choice but to take his life. Even Suguru wasn’t strong enough to outstand Yuta. Shoko said she’ll be able to stitch you up completely and that you’ll be healthy again. I’ll meet up with you tomorrow, okay?”

You sign and take another sip of the scorching whiskey in front of you. What time is it? You don’t know. To be honest you lost track of time long ago. After Suguru, your boyfriend of more than five years, called you a monkey and almost killed you for being a non-jujutsu sorcerer, you quit your job and moved further away. With some strip shows here and there you can just keep your head above water – it’s enough to pay for alcohol and your worn-down apartment at least.

That dreadful day changed you completely. You no longer wear a loving smile on your lips, your sundresses lie in the garbage as well as your dignity. You let your hair grow out and dyed it a completely different colour. At this point your curves are completely gone, eaten up by alcohol and lack of sleep. Your tired eyes are sunken and always adorned by dark circles. If you were seen on the street, not even Satoru would be able to recognize you anymore.

Satoru…You haven’t checked in with him since Shoko stitched you up over a year ago. Not that he didn’t try to talk to you. To this day he calls you multiple times a week and sends you countless messages, asking where you are and how you’ve been. You can tell that he’s truly worried about you, but you simply can’t let him see you like this, all worn down and consumed by grief.

The alcohol sometimes made you forget your own name, some nights even his. Your pain swallowed you after you realized that your whole life was a lie, that Suguru did in fact not care about you at all. Satoru just reminds you of your past, the agony you are so eagerly trying to forget. And that’s why you’re sitting here, inside an empty bar late at night with the 10th drink in your hand, head already completely numb and tired eyes covered by a pair of cheap sunglasses.

“Rough day, huh?”

You down the whole whiskey glass and order a new one without looking at the stranger that seems to talk to you.

“Rough life”, you comment dryly.

“So rough that you’re not even recognizing me.”

Your gaze shoots up, mind barely able to process what he’s saying. But this white hair you’d still recognize from miles away.

“How did you find me, Satoru?”

The wounds you hid so well over the past couple of days rip open immediately at his sight. He looks as good as usual, hair a little less fluffy than a year ago. But the bright smile he wears on his lips seems to stay the same no matter how old he his. Yes, it seems like he was able to move on and live his life – how good for him.

“You hid so well that it took me some time. And because you haven’t given any sign of life for a year, I thought I’d just stop by, y’know”, he declares casually.

“Maybe, just maybe I didn’t answer because I didn’t wanna be found by you. I’m fine, no need to worry”, you mutter, gaze glued to the dirty table.

“You’re not fine. You need to rest, (y/n).”

The sound of his voice is so unknown serious that you can’t help but stare at him. Satoru’s facial expression changed completely, cheeky grin gone with the wind. You can see his blue orbs staring at you through the shade of his sunglasses, inspecting you precisely. Did he really just come here to tell you to rest? How fucking stupid.

“What the hell are you talking about? I was just minding my own business when you came around after one year, only to tell me that I look like shit? Guess what Satoru, I don’t need your fucking help. Leave me alone.”

His presence robs you the air to breath. You jump up, throw two bills on the counter and stumble to the exit. The fresh air of the night hits you like a wall and makes it hard to inhale for a moment. Who does this fucker think he is to tell you what to do? You did just fine before he came along and now you’re feeling like crap all over again.

“(y/n), don’t run away from me. I’m faster anyway!”

“Just stop following me, idiot!”

“Don’t run away, then! Stop acting like a brat!”

Your limbs begin to shake in nothing but thick fury, mind clouded by alcohol and drugs.

“I don’t want you near me, Satoru!”, you cry out.

The ground underneath your feet seems to shake, you fall onto the wet street like a sack of rice. Your gut begins to turn uncomfortably, that feeling is way too familiar for you. Before you are able to tie your hair into a ponytail, the liquid of today leaves you in a gush and spills onto the tarmac.

“Gosh, I would love to take a picture of you now. But that’s actually not funny anymore.”

Satoru’s hand wraps around your hair and hold them up while his other arm prevents you from falling over into your own vomit. Tears pool your eyes, throat burning all over from the liqueur. It’s been a while since you had to puke because of alcohol, not the best feeling to be honest. You sob to yourself silently, body shaking like an earthquake from retching dryly.

“Someday I will drink enough to forget his name”, you choke out, arms trembling from the cold and exhaustion.

“You will never drink enough to forget him. Trust me, I tried.”

You wipe your mouth unladylike and sit up, world around you still twisting and turning.

“You’re not the only one who lost someone that night. He was my best friend, the only one I’ve ever had (y/n). It broke me to let him go. But what pains me even more is that you let yourself go this critically, completely lost in your grief and cut off contact with me, just like that. I am your friend too, (y/n). We could have gotten through this together. Instead, you chose to stay high and drunk to keep him off your mind. Let me tell you that sooner or later, past will catch up with you. No drug in the world will make you forget the feelings you’ve had for him.”

The way Satoru’s voice breaks makes you stare up at him with tears swelling up your eyes. To be honest, you never thought about Satoru’s feelings in all of this. Guilty conscience creeps up your spine and takes your breath away. Fuck, why do his words have to make so much sense?

“Why would you want to keep in touch with me? Maybe Suguru is right. Maybe I am nothing more than a monkey after all. And a bad friend on top”, you breathe out.

Satoru can’t believe his ears. Do you really think that you are worth less because you are a non-jujutsu sorcerer?

“(y/n), don’t you dare even thinking about that being true. Suguru was so wrong for all of this. And I get why you’re trying to forget him. Just let me help you getting through this, yeah? Let’s be there for each other.”

He stretches out his hand in front of you, a warm smile caressing his lips.

“Why would you try to help be after I left you alone?”

He may be fucking stupid and unserious from time to time, but Satoru has a heart of gold. Maybe the abused doesn’t necessarily have to become the abuser.

“Why? Because we’re friends, dumbass.”

A smile laugh escapes your lips, hands frantically washing away your salty tears. Oh, Satoru. Where would you be without him and his constant support? Probably dead, crushed under Suguru’s curse. And today? Sooner or later you’d probably kill yourself with alcohol and drugs.

You lay your shaky hand into his. With a swift motion, he lifts you up and embraces you into a tight hug. God, it feels so good to be finally held again. Maybe this is what you needed after rejecting any physical affection from other people for more than 10 years for Suguru’s sake. He smells so good, fresh like a morning in summer. And the heat of his body stops your delicate frame from shaking uncontrollably. Tears run down your cheek like a waterfall, soaking into his uniform in an instant. Satoru just stands there, arms tightly wrapped around you and his head laid on top of yours.

Something inside you snaps. You cry out in pain and grief, sobbing against his chest while he stays silent and lets you have your moment of sorrow. It must have been hard for you to deal with all of this shit alone, everything and everyone reminding you of Suguru. But Satoru is all the more pleased that you are finally allowing your feelings and that you can find comfort in his arms. Slowly but surely your sobbing gets softer and your body stops shaking. Hopefully you feel better now.

“You look tired. Do you live far away from here?”, he requests when you stayed silent for a few minutes.

“Just around the corner. You don’t have to stay though, looks pretty shabby.”

“Like you, that doesn’t stop me though. Time for bed, come on.”

Half an hour later he lays by your side, your body showered for the first time in a while and covered by his way too big t-shirt. Satoru’s arm casually hangs around your shoulder, gaze fixed on the ceiling above. Even in darkness his eyes shine like diamonds - absolutely mesmerizing. It feels so good to be finally held again, to not be alone with your depressing thoughts late at night.

“Why didn’t you just give up on me?”

“How could I do that? You are an absolute sunshine. I owe you so many moments of joy, laughter and good memories. I would rather die than give you up, especially when you need me. Jujutsu sorcerer or not, the world would be a so much worse place without a ray of sunshine like you on it.”

You burry your head in his chest when a new wave of tears threatens to overcome you. What a nice human he is. Despite everything you both been through, after all the pain he had to endure, the affection he holds for you in his eyes is the same as 10 years ago. He will after look after you, be there when you need a shoulder to cry on, will catch you when you fall. It’s you and Satoru against the world with Suguru always in your grieving hearts.

“You saved me again, Satoru”, you whisper into the silence of the room.

“We saved each other, (y/n).”

You smile to yourself, head laying comfortable against his chest. Maybe everything will be alright and you’ll be able to get over the trauma of the last years. Not today, but with Satoru’s help you to eventually get over it.

It just takes time.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo saturo #jjk #jjk gojo #jujutsu gojo #jujutsu kaisen #satoru gojo #satosugu #gojou satoru x reader #jjk satoru #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru fluff #gojo x you #gojo fluff #jujutsu kaisen x reader

504 notes · View notes

whalesforhands · 10 months

Note

would love to see something ab reader having a nightmare about shoko, geto, and gojo dying maybay? and they wake up in a panic? shuffling off to the dorm kitchen to try and maybe calm herself down only to see geto there and he helps calm them down after they confide in him. could be with your series where gojo and geto are together because those boys are def in love 🥹☺️. BUT YEAH JUST,,, comfort hehe.

really enjoying your writing btw, pls keep up the good work, bub :)

very very very cute idea anon. ily ♥️

yes, i swear they are 100% in love with each other canonically!!!! i love them together sm.

if only my dreams were as sweet as you (geto x reader x gojo)

warnings: angst to comfort, anxiety attacks, depressive episode, gore descriptions

You shook upon the ground you sat on, barely breathing, barely able to move.

Your leg was ripped off, the remainder of what was left of it wrapped tight with Suguru’s coat, his attempt to comfort you, to stop the bleeding. To assure you everything is okay.

You think you’ve lost your sense of touch. Your sense of self. You can’t feel any semblance of their cursed energies anymore.

Geto Suguru laid on the ground, his eyes lifeless, an arm torn off from his body, laying uselessly within the pits of some sick curse’s stomach. A large hole stretched throughout his midriff. He had no chance of survival.

Shoko Ieiri was near your side, body cold, trapped within rubble that suffocated her already dead self, her face unrecognisable, gored from the ferocious attacks of a special grade that she stood no chance against from the start.

Finally, Gojo Satoru, laid on your lap as you screamed and cried for him to wake up. You can’t lose him. His eyes were wide open, crystalline blue dull and gone, his cursed energy barely even there. Your tears fell onto his face, staining his cheeks and seeping into the cuts he sustained.

You shake and shake him with your broken arms, your arms feeling useless as the nerves slowly started to die.

Please. Please. Please!

Don’t leave you alone in this universe. Don’t leave. Don’t leave! You can’t lose the only people you love. You can’t. Your heart shattered when Ieiri fell, crushed to dust when Suguru lost, and now nothing would remain as Satoru was defeated.

You feel the looming shadow of the special grade curse.

You hope it takes you to where your beloved three were.

Jolting awake with a start, sweat dripping off your brow even as the AC ran. Feeling your heart stutter and pound, your senses going into overdrive as you felt the area for the three.

Suguru, Shoko and Satoru. You felt their energy all around you. A strikingly bright, overwhelming energy. An ominous, immense and darker energy. A serenely heart-chilling one.

Alive. They were alive. Your heart never felt such relief.

Thank goodness. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

Your hand scurried to what you thought was your missing leg, squeezing and pinching the flesh that was definitely there. Yep, definitely a dream. A horrible one.

A nightmare.

You hold your face in your hands as you felt tears begin to well up. You can’t believe your mind even conjured that. Bile was rising up your throat as you continued to cry.

You can’t live in a world without them. The thought of losing all three of them was devastating.

A life without them? You’d rather die. You felt the urge to throw up just thinking about this.

Water. You need water. Does Suguru keep his chamomile and valerian tea in the pantry too? You think you need some.

Your shaky legs barely hold you up as you venture out of your room, dressed in your sleep shorts, oversized shirt and fluffy lamb slippers. Your hair was a mess, your face void of most of its colour.

You must look like you’ve woken from the dead. (Your attempt at a joke to lighten yourself up. You need to spend more time around Satoru for his silliness. You suck.)

As you approached the kitchen, you were surprised to see a glowing lamp still on. Is someone in there, or did Satoru forget to turn it off?

You slowly peek in from the ajar door, only to find Geto Suguru, in all his glory, already staring at you. Long hair left down from his usual bun, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt with Satoru’s face printed on it.

In his hand, a cup of steaming tea.

“I thought that was you. How are you still awake?”

——

Your head was rested on his shoulder, his arm comfortingly wrapped around your shoulders, snuggled comfortably onto the sofa with one empty cup, the other half-way drunk on the coffee table before you.

“And? What happened then?” He softly inquired, voice soothing and gentle as he tenderly prodded your thoughts.

“You all… Were dead…” You began, a sniffle already squeezed out of you. The thought making you want to cry all over again.

“I- I could never handle… Losing any of you…” Your grip tightened itself around his shirt, hand over where his beating heart was, as you buried yourself into his shoulder, trying to press yourself closer to him.

“It’s okay.” He whispered. “I’m here. We’re all here.” His other hand came up to wipe at your tears.

“That will never happen.” He continued to say, hearing your breaths starting to slow and even out.

He was about to continue, until the door to the room was creaked open.

“Suguruuuuuuu, why’d you leavveee meeeee?” A whining Satoru has just awoken from Suguru’s bed. His eyes were still closed, had it made it all the way here just by feeling for his boyfriend’s cursed energy?

Then he must’ve sensed yours too.

Dressed in a shirt printed with Suguru’s sleeping face, and a similar pair of sweatpants, he creaked open his eyes. Picking up Suguru’s half-empty cup and downing the remainder of it.

You felt Satoru plop onto the couch right beside you, snuggling his face into your chest before he stretched over the length of both your and Suguru’s legs, placing his head on Suguru’s lap as he splayed his legs out on your own lap.

(The menace even reached out for your hand, holding it in his own as his eyes closed back, smiling as he threaded his fingers through yours.)

A cuddle pile.

He spoke, feeling Suguru stroke his hair.

“Ya just woke up from a bad dream?” It was an inquiry, tender and laced with a hint of worry.

You remain silent. He understands.

“Don’t,” He yawns, feeling comforted by Suguru’s hand. “Don’t worry…”

“We’re the strongest, after all…” He fell back asleep. How strong of him.

Suguru nods, a smile on his face.

“He’s right, you know?” A kiss to your forehead.

“We are the strongest.”

You think the tea was starting to kick in. Why was there such a warm, soothing feeling within you? You felt the lids of your eyes begin to grow heavy, Suguru opening his free arm more allow your head to loll onto his chest, holding you close as your eyes begin to shut.

You like being here.

masterlist

Notes:

Suguru has trouble sleeping due to the bad aftertaste from swallowing curses. It’s disgusting, the taste haunts his mouth and he gags at the reminder of it.

It was Satoru’s idea to get his and Suguru’s faces printed on shirts. The photo he used for himself was one of him looking charming, whilst Suguru’s photo was one of him drooling onto Satoru’s pillow. The shirts are very high quality, and very expensive.

There is an extra shirt in your size with both of their photos printed on it hidden in Suguru’s closet.

Satoru finds it hard to sleep without a certain someone in bed. If Suguru is awake, they’ll both just sleep on the couch in the shared living room area.

Shoko was the one to find all three of you cuddled into each other asleep on the sofa. She got a blanket she draped over you as she drank her coffee, taking a photo of all three of you that she sent to both Suguru and Satoru.

See? She can be nice. But they both owe her a favour now.

#geto x reader #geto x reader x gojo #gojo x reader #whalewrites #getou suguru x reader x gojo satoru #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #getou suguru x reader #satosugu x reader #dyf au

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thevalleyisjolly · 6 months

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As an intrinsic part of their Mortal heritage, I like to think that all the Half-Elven in Middle-earth have at one point in their lives (but most especially their youths) had a fairly unflattering haircut that they genuinely believed was the hottest shit ever:

Dior had a long feathered mullet that was a pure flex to show off how naturally full and voluminous his hair was. He only cut it once the twins were born and it became too much work to maintain while looking after two babies.

Elúred and Elúrin got their hands on an unattended bottle of hair dye when they were five and gave themselves skunk hair bangs that took months to wash out.

Elwing once experimented with teasing her curls into a big 80's hairdo because people told her how her father used to have big hair.

Eärendil had to cut his hair after a lice scare onboard one of Círdan's ships and went for a bowl cut that he thought would be quick and easy to do. Unfortunately, the bowl he used was a little too small and the high fringe made it look like he was wearing a small hat made out of hair. Idril had conniptions. Tuor managed to hold in his laughter until he could reach the privacy of an inner room. Elwing demonstrated the incredible power of love by both saying yes to his proposal and offering to neaten his fringe so that it at least looked a little less choppy.

Elrond stubbornly sported a man bun undercut for two whole years after he lost a bet with one of Maedhros' Mortal retainers and Maglor made a sighing comment about how he shouldn't worry because his hair would soon grow back out "nice again."

Elros gave himself curtained hair in solidarity with Elrond so that Maglor would get off his back, and kept it until the first time he commanded a war party and got good-naturedly ribbed to hell about looking like a 14 year old kid.

Like father like son, Elladan wore a rat tail for a few years after one of the Dunédain wagered he couldn't pull it off. He really couldn't, although he thought it looked great and was forever trying to do fancy styles with it until Elrohir staged a sibling intervention.

Elrohir maintained a buzzcut for nearly fifty years after his parents a little too amusedly said that he could do whatever he liked with his appearance now that he was of age.

Arwen went through a phase in her 200s where she dyed her hair with whatever colours she could get her hands on. The silver was very nice (Celeborn was extremely proud) and the blue highlights were interesting but still managed to work. She even made a decent ginger. However, the attempt at Arafinwëan gold just ended up a washed-out bleach blonde that is to date the only thing that has ever stunned Galadriel into utter speechlessness.

+Although not born Mortal, Lúthien spent a full Valinorean year with feathers instead of hair while trying to shape-shift into a nightingale. It actually made for quite an aesthetic when she took the time to preen them properly, but as she was far too busy running around having adventures with Daeron, the effect was more often ruffled bird's nest than sleek wings.

#lotr #silmarillion #dior eluchil #elúred #elúrin #elwing #eärendil #elrond #elros #elladan #elrohir #arwen #peredhil headcanons

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dxckgrxsonx · 1 year

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soo… can we get more dickpic storyline?? IM ON MY KNEES BEGGING YOU 🙏🙏🙏😩😩

okay. so this took longer than i wanted. on the upside, i've got about seven different scenes half written out because this fought me every step of the way.

Jason gets a little jealous in this one which i will explore in the next part ;)

MASTERLIST // SERIES MASTERLIST

“Do you have to go?”

Panic snaps tight like an elastic band around your chest and you whirl a full hundred-and-eighty degrees to face Jason, breath still frozen solid in your throat.

There’s a pout settled on his face, bottom lip pushed out just slightly, eyes downcast. He looks almost…pathetic really for someone who has the potential to be dangerous. A mean looking bruise grabs at his jaw and annoyingly, it almost makes you cave right there and then.

“Will you stop doing that!” You snap, pitching a tube of lipgloss in his direction. “The idea of dying from a heart attack is so embarrassing. I either die in an epic shoot-out, or I simply just do not die.”

Catching the tube with one hand Jason grumbles and flops face-first onto your bed, “I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” He whines, voice muffled by the duvet. “I bought us facemasks. You’re denying me beautifully moisturised skin. This is the worst thing you’ve ever done.”

“Aw, poor baby.” You mock, standing up from your dresser and draping yourself across his well muscled back. “Is this worse than the time I blew up your microwave? Or the time you asked me to look after your plants and I accidentally killed them?”

Grabbing a pillow, Jason reaches behind him and wacks you with it, “You’re a horrible person and you’re going directly to hell.”

Sniggering, you balance on your knees as Jason shifts underneath you. Once he’s settled so he’s facing upwards you seat yourself comfortably on his stomach. Jason looks at you with nothing but disappointment when you request his attention by sticking a finger in his mouth, but you ignore him and ask, “Will you be there?”

“Get your fucking finger out of my mouth before I bite it off.” He garbles.

“What was that? I can’t understand you.” Grinning to yourself, Jason rolls his eyes and sinks his teeth into your finger. He bites down hard enough for it to fucking hurt and you yell whilst yanking it free. “That was attempted murder. You’re definitely going to hell with me.”

Jason doesn’t reply and you feel the pause in the air. It makes you nervous and you can’t decide if it’s in a good way or not.

“You look really nice.” He suddenly blurts out, and you pause in your anxious examination of your now injured finger. He swallows thickly when you look at him like he’s grown another head, pink splotching clumsily across his cheeks. “But you’re missing something.”

“Yeah.” You agree, trying to control your voice without letting him know that your heart is shaking at the bars of your ribs. “A finger without teeth marks.”

The pink starts dipping to caress his throat and you shift just slightly on his lap, getting worked up about just how far down that colour could reach if you pushed him a little more.

Opening his palm, Jason reveals your lipgloss and he twists it open. You expect him to hand it over to you so you can apply it yourself, but Jason–forever full of surprises–reaches out his steady hand and goes to apply it for you.

His swipes with the wand applicator are precise and you rub your lips together to get them evenly coated, but you end up smudging a small blob of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

Jason’s lips quirk up at the edge and he silently wipes the excess away with the pad of his thumb before you get a chance to even raise your hand.

“There you go.” He says, and his voice is thicker than normal, heavier. “Now you look perfect.”

You find yourself lost for words.

It doesn’t happen often. But sometimes you find yourself grasping at thin air, letters slipping between your fingers like sand.

Well, that's not entirely true.

The right letters are there, but you just don’t know how to hold them yet. And you don’t know what would happen if you stopped hoarding them behind your teeth.

How strange that the fear of something unknown can keep you from being happy; how unbelievably human that is.

Touching the tips of your fingers to the bruise on Jason's jaw you sigh, almost like it’s causing you pain. The colour is dark–recent–not yet starting to heal. Jason exhales and tips his head to the side, baring his throat and letting you explore the edges of the bruising. His eyes slip closed and there's a yearning throb inside you swelling up at just how much trust Jason has in you to be vulnerable.

His hands come to rest on your thighs, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. Sweeping your fingers at the very bottom of the discolouration something catches your eye.

A thin white line stretching across his jugular.

It looks like he’s had this throat sliced open.

Pulling your hand back you say Jason’s name in a near horrified whisper and he turns his head to look at you. There’s something there, written in the lines of his face and the way he looks at you–like you’re everything–but neither of you say a word.

A sudden smile lights up your face despite the sharp wedge of something like grief in your chest and you plant a sticky kiss across Jason’s cheek, “Mwah!”

“Fuck you so much.” Jason says, shoving your head away and wiping the lipgloss from his cheek, but he smiles back at you, Lazarus eyes glittering. “For the record–”

“Oh no you don’t. If the next words out of your mouth are something stupid like, ‘for the record I know you ate the leftover pizza in my fridge last night’ then I’m not listening.”

“For. The. Record…” Jason starts again, “If you’re with me in hell. Then it’s not hell.”

“You’re such a fucking sap, Todd.” Shoving your entire palm in his face he makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat and swats at your thigh. “Sweet talk isn’t going to make me stay home tonight. I’m going out and it’s going to be fun!”

You’ve got seven messages to say your friends are waiting outside and you wrestle open your door with a growl then turn to face Jason who’s sprawled out on your couch.

“If I don’t text you by one–”

“I’ll come look for you.” Jason finishes. He’s got a mug of tea in his hands and he picks up the book he left on your coffee table the last time he was at your apartment. “Have fun! Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Pfft. I’ve never been stupid a day in my life.”

“Hey! Remember that time when you–”

“Nope!” You interject loudly whilst Jason laughs. “I’m leaving now.”

Your shoes keep sticking to the floor.

Resting with one elbow on the bar you sip at your drink and throw a glance around the crowded club. Bodies are jammed together on the dancefloor and as the music swells the crowd rises to match. The entire atmosphere is electric, the push and pull of thrumming bass and alcohol making your hips sway easily to the beat.

“Well hello there, pretty thing. Can I buy you a drink?”

Pointedly glancing down at the glass in your hand with a slight quirk of your mouth you look up and make eye contact with the guy standing beside you. The first thing you notice is that he looks completely out of place; like he would be more at home somewhere quiet. He fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt and you quickly realise that he’s nervous.

It’s almost endearing if not for the whole ‘pretty thing’ thing.

“God.” He says, laughing to himself and rubbing the back of his neck. “That was absolutely horrible–there’s literally a drink in your hand. I’m so sorry. I must admit, this isn’t usually something I do.”

Across the club you watch as your friends zero in on you, waiting for any sign you need intervention–or an escape. Just the knowledge that they’ve got your back is enough for you to loosen your shoulders slightly.

The air around you twists and swells. Someone else has your back too.

“I agree. That was horrible. I mean, pretty thing? Really?” Someone says from behind you, their voice eerily familiar and sharp. A firm arm snakes around your middle and the memory of having that same thick arm wrapped around you whilst you slept flashes bright behind your eyes. “She’s not interested.”

You've never heard Jason sound like that before. He sounds almost possessive, maybe even jealous and it feels like someone just jammed a taser into your ribs and shot you full of fifty-thousand volts.

“The fuck are you doing here?” You ask, leaning back against his chest, skin warm and buzzing. “But also, thank fuck you’re here. Did you hear that guy? Pretty thing? Seriously? I’ve never felt more objectified.”

Jason laughs and rests his head on your shoulder, “It was boring waiting for you to get back and I didn’t feel like doing facemasks on my own. What are you drinking?”

“Something fruity.” Comes your response and you lift the glass so Jason can take the straw between his teeth. “Are you sure you didn’t just miss me?”

Humming as he takes a sip Jason lets the straw go and turns so he can press his mouth against the shell of your ear, “And if I did miss you?”

Your whole body shudders at the tone of his voice and you just barely manage to stop the whine from coming out of your mouth. His arm tightens around your waist and you can’t deny just how good it feels to have him close like this.

“You could have just called. I would’ve come home, you know?”

“I did call.” Jason rumbles, and you pull out your phone to check. “See. I called you twice and you didn’t answer. You’ve really hurt my feelings.”

“Oh here we go again. You’re always talking about your feelings.” Jamming your elbow backwards and into his ribs, Jason recoils in offence. “I hurt your feelings when I stole all your socks. I hurt them when I burnt that cake in your oven. I even hurt them that one time I laughed when you fell down the stairs.”

“I can’t help that I’m sensitive!” Jason defends, the pitch of his voice touching the roof. He shifts to pinch your waist and you smack the back of his hand.

Patting his arm you spin around to face him, and when you glance up at him you suddenly turn thoughtful–emotional.

“You’ve just got a big heart.” You say softly, reaching up to brush your fingers through the white streak in his hair. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Jason pauses, and you let your hand drop back to your side.

“And yet you laugh at me when I fall down the stairs.”

“Of course.” You deadpan. “Because it’s really fucking funny.”

You took your shoes off a few blocks back and they’re hanging from your fingers as Jason gives you a piggy-back ride home. You were fine until you stepped one foot outside the club and then the hit of somewhat fresh air sent your head spinning.

“I really hope my ass isn’t out.” You mumble, head resting on his shoulder. “No one needs to see what underwear I’ve got on.” Jason sighs like every word out of your mouth causes him physical pain. “At least I hope I’ve got underwear on.”

“You are a goddamn disaster.” He says, mostly to himself. Shifting you further up his back when you start to slide down he grumbles, “For fucks sake you’re not making this easy.”

“I live to please.”

“I think I might actually hate you just a little bit.”

“Rude. Now you’ve hurt my feelings.”

“Now, now, pretty thing.” Jason mocks. “Having your feelings hurt is my thing, not yours. So shut up.”

Breaking out into giggles you tuck your face into Jason’s neck and sigh, “The only person I want to call me pretty is you, Jay.”

“Well I’m not going to do it now.”

Without thinking you sink your teeth into his neck and bite down hard enough for it to bruise. Jason stops dead in the middle of the street, his rough hands flex around your thighs and you honest to god hear him moan.

It sounds almost exactly the same as it does on the videos and you shiver.

“Y’make such pretty noises, Jason.” You praise, and run your tongue along the indents of your teeth in his skin. Goosebumps flare up his forearms and you feel him swallow. You wonder for a split second if he’s blushing again. You wonder how far down it goes this time. “My sensitive boy.”

Yawning loudly, you slump your head back against his shoulder, and Jason starts walking forwards again, his pace uneven.

“M’tired.” You slur, half asleep.

“Almost there.” Jason reassures, “My pretty girl.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader series #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #dickpic!jason x reader #jason todd fanfic #jason todd fanfiction #asks #answered #ella writes

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damianbugs · 4 months

Text

Batman: Universe (2020) written by Bendis and illustrated by Nick Derington was one of the most charming and lovely batman comic i have read in a really long time. it's a silly time travel story!!! and only six issues long!

SPOILERS AHEAD, here are some out of context panels that just really amused me;

i really enjoyed how casual batman is with the people in gotham. like yeah, bruce regularly spooks residents when he grapples up the side of their building, and stops for a quick chat. the young new cops aren't exactly sure how to handle batman while others are too used to him to care anymore.

then the whole interaction with green arrow (issue 2) was SO fun! i am so fond of them and they're rarely in enjoyable comics together anymore. i particularly loved this little detail:

at first bruce calls him oliver, but as the situation becomes increasingly more dangerous, he switches to calling him ollie! i am very normal about this.

THE BATLANTERN MOMENT. this whole part of the story (issue 3 & 4) was just, very sweet. it was a perfect balance of them being prickly to each other, while also sticking close and working really well.

this part of the story also features cowboy bruce and hal (sort of)!

...and then bruce was really worried about hal when he lost control and vanished from the past (he's fine), so much so that later in the story when he's dying, he mentions that he hopes green lantern is okay (in the present, hal leaves bruce a voice message to say he is okay, and hopes bruce is safe too).

oh right yeah so bruce dies (for like, a page, thank you confusing time travel mechanics) and THIS IS WHAT HE SAYS TO ALFRED:

I AM SORRY YOU CAN'T HEAR ME.. TELL YOU.. HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU.. I REALLY DO........ bruce wayne when i get you (issue 4).

AND THEN!!!! DICK ARRIVES (issue 5)!!!!!! i was hoping we'd get to see damian when bruce returned to the present, or that robin would come along on the time travel shenanigans, but this moment happened and i didn't even mind. it was so lovely. the duo of all time always.

a lot happens after this moment (issue 6), but these little panels really spoke to me. look at him. sitting criss cross apple sauce in the face of absolute doom. the pastel coloured eternal hell was also very funny to me, as was bruce then literally jumping between different periods of time during the final fight — but i have run out of space to share those. you need to go look at them for yourself.

so idk, READ IT !!!!!!

#after exams i just needed a fun comic so scrolled through my to read list and picked this one #healed me. i am healed. nothing can ever hurt me again.#also bruce hal and ollie oh my oh oh my god my sillies #bruce wayne #hal jordan #oliver queen #dick grayson #batman #this is the most batman to ever batman... like this is so batman #saki comic talks #DC MORE SILLY TIME TRAVEL STORIES. PLS.

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jessicaslittlelovesickmess · 3 months

Text

Your mama’s crying

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x daughter reader

Warning: death, angst, Ian Doyle, depression, Ian calling reader by her “name”

It had been seven months…

Seven months since your mother had passed, your best friend had died at the hands of your father Ian Doyle. Seven months of losing yourself and recreating a new version of who you once were, everything had changed once she left, even me.

I couldn't bare looking into the mirror to stare at the dark eyes, raven hair that I mourned the loss of so I dyed it. Pink. Purple. Blue. Green. Red. Before settling on a beautiful Blonde that she would've loved. I swapped my glasses for coloured contacts, it hurt to see the ghost of my mother in myself.

Seven months and yet it felt like seven years..

The first day had begun a month after mum had passed, I was curled in her bed my face smothered in her blankets that were slowly loosing her scent. Morgan had burst into the room throwing my gym clothes at me telling me to get ready, we ran ten kilometres that day only stopping at the lookout on the hill to yell out our frustrations at the world.

It became a routine of sorts and sometimes Penelope would join us although she couldn’t keep up with us as often. It was okay. We would be okay, Sergio clung to me more as the months grew almost as if he just knew.

I sat with Derek on the roof, his arm wrapped securely around my shoulders as we spoke "I miss her" I whispered curling myself into him more. "Me too, miniP' he kissed my head before resting his cheek on it"me too he repeated sadly "she'd be proud of you, you know that right?" | nodded biting my lip.

I hope she would be

Although I wanted revenge

I had graduated university top of my class with the team cheering me on in the crowd, how was I to see those two guilty faces. It hurt my mother not being in the front row like she was meant to but I imagined she had been.

My father loved me in a strange way

The team thought it best to use me as the bait to catch him, I called him to a cafe just a quiet one that I had visited him before at. Staring at him I felt nothing, his face was blank “whats the softest way to say you took away my friend, my buddy?. Whats the kindest way to say you took away my friend?”.

“You wouldn’t understand Alora” he whispered “so help me understand father” hopefully the team should walk in any moment. “It was simply fate my dear, we have a past” fate? Fate took my mother? My heart had shattering once more.

I wanted to scream and cry, throw anything available at him but I was just so numb and maybe he knew that as he leaned over. Placing a gentle kiss on my forehead before the team burst in “Je t'aime Y/n” he whispered I love you Y/n “Adieu père” I whispered. Goodbye father

How dare he simply call it fate

“Elle m'a enlevé ma fille”

She took my daughter away

I was bound to him, mum was bound to him

I was his daughter

It was all a blur as he was arrested, I had become numb but I knew I hated France it would never be the same I’m not sure Virginia could be the same anymore.

I never went home that day, finding myself at Penelope’s front doorstep tears streaming down my face. Her arms had become home I wondered if my mother would be disappointed in me- of who I had become.

“Oh my sweetheart”

I wished I could’ve told her sooner about my adoration for women of my harboured feelings for an older blonde that I had no chance with. I had an internship with the bau while I found a job that I actually wanted, I had plans just as my mother once had.

We had been called into the conference room, I stood near the back “everyone take a seat” Hotch sighed as JJ stood beside him. "7 months ago I made a decision that affected this Team." he said, and I knew immediatly that this was about mum.

"As you know, Emily had lost a lot of blood after her fight with Doyle. The doctors were able to stabilize her and she was airlifted from Boston to Bethesda under a covert exfilitration. Her identity was strictly need-to-know." he said and I felt sick to my stomach.

"She stayed there until she was well enough to travel, she was reassigned to Paris where she was given several different identities which we had no access to for her security." He goes on.

"She's alive?" Penelope asked.

"But we buried her..." Reid says hurt.

I had buried my mother

Yet she had walked into the room with a smile on her face as if these seven months had never existed, I had buried my mother for nothing. These seven months had been a lie, all the words JJ and Aaron said had been lies all those tender hugs and kisses were full of guilt.

I couldn’t help but leave quickly as mum made her way around the team giving out hugs unaware she had watched me go. I couldn’t be there, I couldn’t be in that room not with everyone so happy to have her back, I grieved my mother.

I mourned someone who wasn’t dead

Maybe it was selfish of me but I left the team that day, finally moved my things out of my mothers apartment now that she was back. I ignored her calls so angry she could do such a thing the same went with Aaron and JJ, how could they? my mother?.

The team had called me often saying how my mother had been crying, her sobs begging for me and maybe in some sick way she knew just how I had felt.

I laid with my head in Penelopes lap as I sobbed, her soothing hands running through my hair “I know it’s hard right now Y/n but maybe it would be a good thing if you started talking to her again”.

“I’m just so scared Pen”

“And thats okay baby cakes”

It wouldn’t be another two weeks before I worked up the courage to talk to her, Rossi was hosting a part while I had arrived with the blonde. Mum made her way beside me “I’m proud of you Y/n” she slowly placed a hand on my shoulder.

She took a deep breath in tears already staining her waterline “and I’m sorry, if I could’ve taken you with me I would’ve but Aaron had said no. I asked them everyday about you and I’m sorry I couldn’t be here I’m sorry, I put my little girl through all this pain”

She moved her hands to cup my face “my baby girl, and when you graduated Uni. I made sure Aaron got me a clip of you. I never once stopped thinking about you, Mon cher I love you”

“And I am so so proud of you” the warmth of her lips pressed against my forehead cemented she was real “I’m sorry mama” I cried. “I was just so angry, I didn’t mean to make you cry” she pulled me into her chest rocking us gently side by side.

After a while she chuckle causing me to look up confused “you and Garcia?” She smirked with a raised brow

#imagine #wlw #angst #penelope garcia x reader #penelope garcia #emily prentiss imagine #emily prentiss x reader #emily prentiss #emily prentiss x daughter #emily prentiss x you #criminal minds

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thesinglesock · 1 year

Text

Psychoanalyzing Lloyd’s most iconic hair styles.

[Post description: a series of screenshots from the animated series LEGO Ninjago. Image shows Kai and Lloyd sitting at a table, they are both holding tea cups. Lloyd is a child with a blonde bowl cut. End description.]

Rise of the Snakes Bowl Cut: this is a child. just a little guy. does not care about self expression through his hair at all, just trying to live his complicated little life.

[Image description: Sensei Garmadon and Lloyd are standing in front of a stone wall. Lloyd is young adult with neatly trimmed, short, blonde hair swept to the side. Garmadon has a similar hairstyle, but grey. End description]

the Sudden Growth Spurt Cowlick: still not a deliberate hair choice, he’s still a kid, trying to mimic his dad because he loves him and looks up to him.

[Image description: Kai has his arm around Lloyd, restraining him. Lloyd has black hair and light green skin. End description.]

the Possession Inversion: Emo phase. that was supposed to be a funny joke but I’m actually crying.

[Image description: Lloyd is holding his sword against Cole’s hammer. Cole’s back is turned to the viewer. Lloyd’s hair is white and nearly reaches his neck. End description.]

Baby’s First Deliberate Hair Choice! Now that he’s no longer feeling like a lost child and is entering his proper Teen Angst Years, the boy bought a pack of cheap bleach and dyed his hair in the monastery bathroom. He also stopped using his dad’s hair gel, sporting a looser, more stylish look.

[Image description: Zane is talking to Lloyd, who appears to be upset. Zane is in his titanium form. Lloyd’s hair is the same style as before, but now in a warm yellow colour with light streaks. End description.]

Post Harumi Golden Locks: you hair matching your girlfriend’s is only cute as long as she isn’t a homicidal maniac. After the Oni Trilogy Lloyd let his hair return to its natural colour, which makes it look much healthier. Too bad his newly developed severe trust issues can’t be fixed by swapping out his conditioner :(

[Lloyd is standing alone in front of a blurry, pink landscape. His hair has more visible dark streaks by the roots. The pink lighting makes it hard to see exactly what kind of blonde it is. End description.]

Dragons Rising: Lloyd has graduated the Angsty Teenager phase. He is now an Exhausted Adult. All his friends are gone, presumed to be dead (again), he is overworked, has adopted two protéges, and has not touched a shampoo bottle in Months. Just look at those greasy roots. Please let him take a break and also a bath.

#ninjago #ninjago dragons rising #vitpost #lloyd garmadon #lloyd ninjago #he's... all grown up??#also I love seeing the animation style evolve. look at where we started.

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irishmammonagenda · 2 months

Note

Hi girl!!!

I have this idea running around in my head for so long. Can you write the demon bros with little sister reader (around the teenage year)? Hear me out. She's the 8th of the family which means she's the youngest. The brothers must be overprotective of her and they would love her so much. Lucifer would have a soft spot for her. She and Mammon would be partners in crime. Then Satan will help her with her study and Asmo will love to help her do her hair. That's it 😁

Btw I love your writing...

hihi! yeah ofc i can! <3

as per usual I had no idea where this was going🧍‍♂️

but this was super fun to write as well

grma for the ask! <3

[Amazing Title]-Obey Me Brothers + Little Sister! Reader

Summary: The brothers except MC's their wee sister ig, chaos ensues. Word Count: 3.8k+ Warnings: Mentions of Death, Female Reader (she/her pronouns used) MC changes her hair length and colour when she feels like it, also she has a crush on some rando idek,

dividers by @cafekitsune

Lucifer was sick to his stomach. Long broken wings attempted to flap, ivory feathers turning black. Wounds open and bleeding. Shooting through stormy skies like a dying star.

His eyes burnt, the speed of his fall making it almost impossible to take in a breath. His lungs burnt. His heart hurt. He hadn´t understood death until Cain took the Rock to Abel, until Father took the scepter to Lilith.

Was he going to die?

He was falling.

As he tore through the sky at a damned pace, he caught a glimpse of warm bronze skin, unusually cold, stained with blood as red as the long crimson hair of his sister.

Despite the pain, despite the strain in his broken, burnt wings, he used the last of his willpower, the last of his strength, to get to the young girl.

He wrapped his hands around her, pulling her close to his chest, attempting to shield her from the fall.

"Luci?-" Lilith chokes out weakly, skin greying, holding onto her brother like a lifeline, one that was getting further away, as her grip slowly loosened. "Luci...I-im scared..."

"D-...don't be..." Lucifer manages to choke out. He could see some sembelance of land now. Some sembelance of an end to the torture of just....falling. "I'll protect you, L-Lilith."

He held on tight to her as he braced for impact, not registering that his little sister had died in his arms, that six wings became two.

He lost conciousness for a moment, hardly lucid, coming to moments later. The ringing in his ears didn't stop.

He coughed up dirt. Dust cleared to reveal two demons, as he looked around he saw crimson everywhere. Filthy fuil dearg coated the crater he'd created. Lucifer scrambled up, staring at the mangled form of what used to be his sister. Not noticing a pair of his wings at his feet. They didn't matter.

He screamed. Gently cradling the corpse, looking up at the Demon Prince with eyes filled with firey fearg, "Save her! Bring her back! Help her..!" He shouts, anger fading to desperation.

The prince regards him with a sort of impassivity, after backs and forths and emotions unravelling, the Demons agree to revive his precious sister as a human, provided Lucifer swears his loyalty, makes a vow with a heavy heart.

"I Lucifer Morningstar....swear absolute loyalty to Lord Diavolo, Prince of Hell."

"Very good."

With a snap of the Demon Butler's finger, his sister disappeared, a screech erupted, but it wasn't from Lucifer. Turning behind him, the disgraced angel saw one of the wings he had barely registered splitting from him---too focused on the pain of losing his sister than the pain of losing his wings,-- the now black mass of feathers morphed and grew like bubbling tar, emitting screeches.

The creature that formed of it, pale of skin, blond of hair, its face contorted in a pain Lucifer felt was a part of him. The demon races, screeching with a fury unbridled. Destruction followed it.

The Demon Prince and Butler watch on with intrigue whilst Lucifer tries to keep from breaking down a second time. The sound of whistling through the air alerts him of his other brothers falling. He looks up, hoping to see where they landed.

Somewhere amongst the vast Devildom. He had to find them. He couldn't handle another death, another loss. Despite his disgrace, his deportation from the only home he'd ever known, he prays to Father one last time, that his brothers were alive.

"There's no need. I will attend to the fallen angels now." The butler says serenely, both him and the Demon Prince disappearing within a moment's notice. Although the latter was more hesitant.

The creature of his wing is still screeching, like a coyote on the prowl, but inherently more sinister. It bites and screams, eyes filled with a murderous rage, one it directs towards Lucifer, as it comes charging at him like a bull of the plaza de toros.

Lucifer takes a step back, His foot hitting something soft and quishy. He pauses, the thing cries. The wails of a newborn cutting through the thick air like a knife, the creature of his wing stops screeching, tilting its head and staring down at the ground.

Lucifer gently picks you up. Cradling you in his arms. He looks to both you and the Creature of Wrath, both so inherently different, both his.

He looks into your eyes for a moment, such a tiny demon, more suited to be an angel, so unlike the pure cantankerousness of the older of the two creatures of his wings.

Lucifer, in the throws of his grief, made two vows that day, the first an oath of absolute loyalty to the Demon Prince, the second, a móid to always protect you.

You tapped your pen against the desk, biting the inside of your cheek as you stared down at your textbook. Shoulder length black hair tied in a low ponytail so it wasn't pouring over your face as you worked. You sighed in defeat, set your pen down and looked up at your two older brothers who were sitting opposite you, and planning out what looks to be another failed prank.

Satan and Belphie had their heads together, murmuring rather animatedly amongst eachother. You snorted, leaning over the table, your sudden movement catches their attention as you stare up at them, your head tilted.

"What about a whoopie cushion?" You ask softly, Belphie makes a face.

"We are not using...human...pranks, we're demons." He snorts, "We have more class than that."

You pout, Satan pinches him from under the table. His green eyes looking dotingly at you, like he would a cat. Coincidentally, he pats your head, ruffling your hair. "I think a simple human world prank could be entertaining to try." He says, giving Belphie a look, the Seventh Born raises his hands lazily in defeat, before leisurely sliding over the table to sit beside you, you quickly flipped to a blank page in your notebook, lest your older brother see the doodles you'd absentmindedly scribbled of you and your crush, a demon from your Devildom History Class.

Satan writes 'Whoopie Cushion' in cursive on their blueprint plans, tongue sticking out ever so slightly, before going back to his own homework. Belphie leans his head on your shoulder, dozing off.

"How did Fear Gorta come to fruition as an entity in the Human Realm?" You read off of your paper, Satan looks up from his essay for seductive speechcraft--a class which you were too young to take--he blinks for a moment, before setting his fountain pen down, and taking up the seat on the other side of you.

Belphie looks over at you tiredly, stretching his arms.

"Need any help?"

They glare at each other playfully, you nod.

Satan takes the textbook from you for a moment, reading the question aloud again.

"Fear Gorta are said to rise from Féar Gortach....sometimes they're just people who died of starvation near Sídhe hills." Satan begins to explain, watching as you nod along.

"They were said to go around with a bowl for begging or almsgiving...travelling, knocking on doors, asking for food." Belphie interjects lazily, head still on your shoulder. "They could hardly keep the bowl from dropping, because they were so weak."

You nod, writing it down, you'd always had trouble simplifying long texts down to their key parts, something Lucifer had assured you would come with time. It was a good thing you had your brothers. They were always willing to help you with homework.

"But what about that has to do with the Fear Gorta coming to fruition in the Human Realm?" You ask, feeling a little dumb.

Satan clears his throat, "Well, some Devildom and Human Scholara believe that the Fear Gorta is what brought the Famine to Ireland. Supposedly, just before the Great Famine, he emerged after a battle of the Fae near Cnoc Meadha."

You scribble that down, your tongue sticking out slightly, an idiosyncrasy developed from your older brother.

Belphie hums, eyes closed, and breathing so even you thought he was asleep. "Mhm, but others believe he's a personification of An Gorta Mór, or the Great Famine himself. That the people of Ireland made him up during the 1840s as a way of coping with and explaining the potato blight."

Upon seeing your confused face, Satan chuckles, "Essentially, the Fear Gorta is an example of how Human suffering can cause mythological beings to be thought up, and how with enough Human Manifestation, they can truly become something that exists."

As if to emphasize, Satan takes a random pen and a scrap piece of paper, drawing little doodles with the summarising he and Belphie had just did.

"Thanks Satan! Thanks Belphie!" You grin, taking the scrap piece of paper, using it to help you jot down the rest of your notes, finally understanding, you begin to answer the question, making a mental note to not let Mammon see the drawings that Satan drew, ever.

It takes a total of ten minutes of pens scratching against paper, Belphie's soft snores, and the dull drill of your own thoughts before you set your pen down, and look up grinning at Satan.

"So...about the prank you're planning..."

The next morning, all decked out in your RAD uniform, you sit on a poof and stare at your reflection in the luxurious vanity. You had decided on long hair, a dark pink so deep it was almost red. That was one of the búntáistí of having the Avatars of Lust and Wrath as brothers, you knew all the best spells for hair, and boy did you exploit that fact.

Short hair? No problem. Long hair? Alright then. Curly? Straight? Wavy? Ask and you shall receive.

Not to mention, Asmo would style your hair, no matter the length, shade or texture, and he would always make it look gorgeous Which was exactly what he was doing now, a gentle comb being ran down your hair, before your brother begins to braid strands in an intercate half-up, half-down pattern.

It's always relaxing when your 5th oldest brother does your hair, always conscious of not hurting you, you let your mind wander.

And wander your mind does, twisting and turning while travelling through the crevices of your brain, eventually coming to a stop at its destination, which just so happened to be the demon in your Devildom History class. They made you feel giddy, with their shoulder length, layered turquoise hair and purposely messy black eye shadow in place of the usual clean cut liquid eyeliner.

"Something on your mind, hon?" Asmo asks concerned as he puts a soft, black bow in your hair, you had been unfocused for a while now.

"Its nothing!" You say a little too defensively, your older brother gives you a knowing look, perfectly threaded eyebrows raising ever so slightly before he gasps and grins excitedly, holding back a squeal.

"Oh!~ And just who is this nothing, honey?~" He asks, you cover your face in your hands and groan, mortification dripping over you as Asmo finishes up on your hair.

Once your hair is done, you rush out, so as not to give the Avatar of annoying you lust any more ammo to tease you with.

Unluckily for you, Asmo was very environmentally friendly, and could make his own ammo.

Your mortification however, is not as short-lived as you'd hoped it would be.

Upon entering the dining room, you make a beeline for Mammon, your partner in crime, and sit beside your 2nd oldest brother, who laughs at you.

"Ye look like yer goin' to a Feis!" He laughs, slapping his knees ad doubled over, you pout and Lucifer, who sat directly diagonal to Mammon at the head of the table slapped him up the back of the head, leaving the avatar of greed choking and spluttering on his own spit.

"S-sorry MC..." He says in between coughs, "Ya look lovely..." He gives you an awkward side hug before resuming his activity of choking to death. You turn to the rest of your brothers as they trickle in, Levi was having an anime marathon, and for the sake of the Devildom seas, and the House of Lamentation not flooding for the nth time, he was allowed to stay in his room, provided he ate something of nutritional value, which meant that some time in the next few hours Lucifer would come into the 3rd born's room with a bowl of freshly cut fruit and force the otaku to eat it.

He was such a mother hen.

Speaking of Lucifer....

"MC," Lucifer drawls, catching your attention. "I received your bi-weekly report last night, you did well in all subjects, though I've noticed your History scores have gone down..." Your eldest brother sets his fork down fully and leans in a little closer to you, only a little bit of concern and a whole lot of care in his eyes, no judgement whatsoever. "Are you not understanding the course material? Would you like me to help you with your work? Or we could get you a tutor."

Asmo leans in to your conversation, eye glittering mischievously, he had taken a little longer to come down to breakfast than he usually did. You were sure he eliminated all of the options and knew exactly what demon you were crushing on.

"Now now Luci!~" He interjects, earning a soft glare from Lucifer, "I'm sure it's nothing to worry about, MC's just a little bit....distracted..." He puts his hands on your shoulders.

Lucifer's eyes widen ever so slightly, Belphie and Satan exchange knowing glances, Beel blinks slowly, were you having trouble focusing in class?

Mammon discreetly opens his DDD under the table, if you were having trouble focusing, he knew a few guys who sold some pretty good remedies for that.

You groan, quickly scarfing down the rest of your breakfast before grabbing Mammon and running out the door, your older brother yelling in confusion.

6 other brothers watch you leave, before turning to Asmo.

Belphie is the first to speak, "Alright, who is it?"

"Who's what?" Beel tilts his head, Belphie turns to him with a smile.

"MC has a crush on someone in her History class."

"Oh, okay." Beel turns to Asmo, "Who is it?"

You and Mammon arrive at RAD unusually early, on account of you essentially fleeing the breakfast table like an escaped convict and dragging your brother with you.

Mammon wasn't annoyed at all, despite his outward act, in actuality, he was delighted. You had picked him to drag out of a chair and run with you?! That meant he must be your favourite big brother! His chest puffs out with pride as you both chatter whilst he walks you to your form class. What type of favourite big brother would he be if he let his little sister walk down the scary hallways of school alone?!

"And then Satan said-" You stop uncerimonously when you catch sight of who's at the other end of the corridor, a blush coating your cheeks, barely noticeable on your skin, hardly even there, but Mammon still picked up on it.

"Hey, twerp, what's up wi' ye?" He asks, examining the hallway, taking notice of the only other demon there.

With a baggy dark denim jacket adorned in pins pulled over their RAD uniform, headphones snapped over their ears, messy turquoise hair cascading down their tanned face. The demon is young--Mammon notices--they look around the same age as you, maybe slightly older.

As they get closer and spot MC, they grin, silver braces shining in the light of the RAD hallway. "Hiya MC! You´re in early!" The demon calls out to you, Mammon notes how you swallow thickly before waving shyly at the demon in question as they approach the pair of you.

The demon goes to rub their eyes, but upon remembering the messy yet purposeful placement of black eyeshadow acting as eyeliner, they stop and pout for just a moment before looking at MC and grinning, eyes as grey as stone flickering to Mammon for just a moment, the demon looks to you and raises one of their thick, dark eyebrows.

"This one of your brothers, MC?" They ask, gaze flickering between you and your brother like a faulty lightbulb.

"O-oh uh...yes! Mammon this is C-Caelus....Caelus this is Mammon..." You introduce them.

"Oh, please, call me Cael, everyone does!" They smile politely at Mammon reaching out to shake his hand, Mammon, bites the inside of his cheek to stop his jaw from dropping. You had a....crush on Cael didn't you?"

"Oh aye." Is all he can manage to say.

Cael nods, before turning completely to face you, they eyelashes fluttering ever so slightly, "So, how come you're in early today?..Nice hair by the way!" They run a hand through their dark turquoise hair, messing it up with their long fingers.

"Oh uh thanks Cael!" You bite your lip, trying to figure out what to say next. "I was thinking of getting in early and studying for the test next week...." You lie, though it did sound like a good idea. No way were you explaining the fiasco that was Breakfast.

Mammon watches like a crow, stopping himself from cooing. You were so adorable! His favourite little dickhead's first crush! They grow up so fast!

He cringes internally, thinking, 'What the actual fuck, I sound like Asmo.'

After another moment, he interupts your conversation to tell you that he needs to go, you nod and say goodbye, before continuing to talk to Cael and trying to keep your blushing under control.

Mammon tredges to the courtyard before whistling.

"Hiya Éan!" He coos to the crow that lands perched on his shoulders, the bird looks unamusedly at him, its been a year and the avian was still judging him for the name choice! "Oh stop yer yappin'...." At the unimpressed look Éan gives him, his eyelid twitches. "Well, I know yer gurnin' internally...don't think I'm dim."

Éan caws.

"Look, I need ye ta do somethin' for me, so I do." Mammon groans at the crows shaking of its head. "I'm not askin' ye to assassinate anyone! I just need ye to keep an eye on this one wee demon in m'sister's class..."

Éan blinks, before leaning in closer to Mammon, he pets its head, it leans into the touch.

"Right so listen up, their name's Caelus...but people call 'em Cael...I need ye to keep an eye on them and give me a report back in a day or so, we clear?"

Éan lets out a quiet caw.

"Great!"

After a long day of RAD, you waled into the attic, where Satan and Belphie were unboxing whoopie cushions. Or rather Satan was unboxing whoopie cushions and Belphie was watching him lazily.

"Hi MC." Belphie smiles at you before gesturing to sit beside him, so you do.

"I thought you said my human world pranks were stupid." You look at Belphie.

"I've decided that since I'm such a good role model, I'll give it a go."

You deadpan, about to say something before a bellowing laugh erupts from Satan.

"You? A good role model?" The 4th born wipes a tear from his eye. "What's next? Lucifer breaking up with Lord Diavolo?"

"I don't think they're dating Satie…" You butt in.

Belphie smirks, "Then why are they so gay?"

"He is the Avatar of Pride, I guess." You shrug.

And with that, Satan picks up the whoopie cushion and the three of you begin your descent down the staircase to Lucifer's office. With you making small talk to distract them from Asmo's words in the morning.

You reach Lucifer's office, but now you need to draw him out. Satan walks in.

"Hello Lucifer."

"Your prank's not going to work." Lucifer puts his pen down.

Satan puts a hand over his heart in mock offence. "No, I saw a cat on the streets walking home and I want to adopt it." He says, not even lying.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you don't need one."

Satan feels wrath bubble up inside him, before he makes a risky move, knowing he needs Lucifer out of his office so you can place the whoopie cushion. "Well if I don't need a cat then you don't need your paperwork!"

He reaches forward and grabs the official documents on Lucifer's desk then bolts.

Lucifer jolts up out of his seat and races after him, out of the office.

That's your cue, quick as a thief on the hunt, you run into your eldest brother's office, and place the whoopie cushion down on his seat, you did it!

"Are you having fun, MC?" Lucifer asks, you jump. Turning around you see a slightly disheveled Lucifer staring at you, eyebrow raised and holding slightly crinkled papers. You back away.

"I wasn't doing anything!" You lie obviously.

"Hmm. Sure….now as for your punishment….I've already strung Satan up in the enterance hall, and I'm certain Belphie has gone somewhere to sleep, when he wakes up he will be appropriately disciplined of course…." He moves closer to you. "Now as for you….." Lucifer clicks his fingers and a desk and chair appear, the waves of magic pushing you into it.

You're going to sit there until I've finished my work. No DDD."

You groan, but don't complain, if it was anyone else out of your brothers, Lucifer would have strung them up like he did with Satan.

An hour goes by, though it seems like several to you, as you're bored out of your mind. Lucifer sets his pen down and stares at you.

"Now, tell me about this Caelus."

You stiffen, knowing better than to lie to your eldest, and strictest brother. "They uh-they're a demon in my class…"

Lucifer raises an eyebrow, prompting you to continue, "And what's this I'm hearing about you having a crush on them?"

"Asmo!" You gurn, covering your face in your hands.

"Asmo and Mammon, actually." Lucifer's lips twitch upwards. "Do you have anything to day for yourself?"

"I won't do drugs."

"MC."

"Okay fine! They're a good demon, I promise! I don't even know if I wanna ask them out yet!"

Lucifer's eyes soften, seeing you now, sitting at a desk, complaining about love…he can't help but be reminded of a different person in a different realm long ago, long passed.

"I trust you, but be careful, okay?"

You nod, something churns in Lucifer's stomach as he looks at you, gracefully moving over to you, and pulling you into a soft hug, arms wrapping around you protectively, as if shielding you from the elements.

"And if ever, you need any help whatsoever, come to me? You understand?"

You nod.

"Say it."

"I understand Luci."

Lucifer smiles, ruffling your hair. "I will always protect you MC."

AND WE'RE DONE!!! this was honetly fun to write, i had no idea where i was going with this and i'm sorry if it doesn't make any sense 🧍‍♂️

fuil (pronounced 'full') means blood, móid (maw-d-ge) means vow or promise, 'to make a vow' would translate to 'móid a thabhairt' (maw-d-ge ah how-ert-ch)

éan (pronounced 'ane') means bird. idk i thought it was funny

#obey me imagines #obey me shall we date #obey me x reader #obey me headcanons #omswd #obey me mc #obey me mammon #obey me lucifer #obey me satan #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me fluff #obey me platonic #obey me lilith #obey me brothers

108 notes · View notes

zeroeightzeroone · 4 months

Text

hair dye - han jisung

genre: fluff

pairings: non-idol!han jisung x gender neutral reader

warnings: none

wc ~2k | moodboard

notes: if this looks familiar, it was originally posted to my secondary blog @zerothreetwentyfive so i'm republishing everything here on my main blog.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ｡｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:

you: choose a colour

jisung: well hello to you to good afternoon my love

you: good afternoon bb now colour

jisung: blue

you: dark or light

jisung: dark

you: thank you bb <3

...

whenever you got indecisive, you would message your boyfriend asking him to help you make a decision without actually disclosing what you're trying to decide. the messages consisted of asking your boyfriend to choose a colour, a number or whatever came to mind in that moment and after dating for so long, he's gotten used to your random messages asking him to choose. a couple weeks ago, you weren't able to decide where to order bubble to from. so you asked jisung to choose a colour and that week he decided on red thus you decided to order bubble tea from the store with a red seal on their drinks.

your question earlier led jisung to assume you were out buying something, something dark blue. the dark-haired boy's assumption is proven correct when he opens the front door to reveal you holding a plastic bag with a grin on your face. unfortunately, the plastic bag you're holding isn't a clear bag so jisung can't see what's inside.

stepping aside, jisung makes enough room for you to enter the apartment. then he's shutting the door and standing by as you remove your shoes.

"hey y/n!" chan greets you from his spot on the couch and om the other end hyunjin also waves at you with a big smile.

"y/n's here?" jisung's other roommate, changbin's head pops out from behind the wall, waving at you from where he stands in the kitchen, "y/n! hey!"

beaming at the three boys, you wave back to them before changbin then returns to whatever he had been dealing with in the kitchen.

"what's in the bag?" hyunjin nods toward you.

"something dark blue," jisung looks over your shoulder, trying to peek into the bag.

chan's head cocks to the side as confusion laces his every facial feature, wondering what's up with the younger boy.

finally, you reach inside the bag to reveal the result of your shopping and jisung's chosen colour. showing your purchase off to your curious boyfriend and his two roommates on the couch.

"hair dye?"

you nod.

"i said dark blue so it's for you right?" jisung pipes up from behind you, "it's not for me because i said dark blue?"

instead of answering his question, you make your way to the bathroom, listening to the sound of chan and hyunjin laughing from a distance. the two boys on the couch amused at the sight of jisung following you around like a lost puppy inside his own home.

"right?" jisung calls from where he trails behind you.

you sit on the closed toilet and place the box onto the sink.

jisung picks it up the moment you place it down.

staring down at the box of dark blue hair dye, his gaze moves to the plastic bag holding another box inside. then his eyes land on your own as he points to his head, "is this… for my hair?"

your boyfriend looks at you with beady eyes and a pout on his lips. you beam up at him, "no, it's for me."

with that, jisung nods with a soft hum.

"unless…?"

he shakes his head immediately, "no! i'm okay. totally fine with my undyed hair."

he rotates the box around to read the instructions on the back—well, actually—to scan through the text instructions and pay more attention to the illustrated instructions drawn on the back.

"i wanted to change up my hair a bit," you stand, crossing over jisung and positioning yourself right in front of the mirror. your hands moving to run through your hair and prod at the ends, "i haven't dyed it in a while, so i figured why not."

jisung watches you through the mirror, "so… if i told you like… poo brown, you would've bought a poo brown coloured dye?"

you glare at him through the mirror, "no you weirdo. i would have asked again and again until you landed on a colour i thought was nice."

he rolls his eyes, lips pursed in a straight line as he lightly hits your head with the box. your arm retracts as you return his gesture with an elbow to his stomach. jisung's body doubles over, acting as if you aimed at his delicate areas. you know he's not in any actual pain when his eyes are flickering up to look at you. jisung who tries and fails to hide his mischievous expressions as he gages your own to see if you're in any way concerned.

"oh my poor baby," you coo, pretending like you're going to cup his cheeks in your hands. right when he straightens his posture and smiles down at you, you've placed the box in his arms, "now help me."

jisung sports an uneasy look, his brows knit and eyes swimming with worry. he brings the box up to eye level and this time his eyes focus on the words and not the pictures. eyes narrowing in concentration as he goes over the instructions once again.

he looks back at you, "are you sure about this?"

you smile, "of course, i think it'll look nice."

"no, not that," he corrects you, "i mean… do you really trust me to dye your hair?"

you nod, still smiling at your boyfriend who still appears to be apprehensive.

"are you sure?"

another nod.

"what if it ends up incredibly patchy?" he quirks an eyebrow in your direction.

you shrug, "it's your work of art then?"

he blinks.

"what if my hair colouring skills are cursed and all your hair falls out and you end up bald with your scalp stained blue?"

you cross your arms over your chest, "well, when i asked if you would still love me if i was bald, you said yes. so i'm not worried about that."

jisung rolls his eyes, "you also asked if i would love you if you were a worm, and got mad at m—"

"-because you said no and that you'd be a bird and eat me!"

you're glaring up at him with your pointer finger pointed sternly in his direction. while jisung sports a goofy grin, eyes sparkling with amusement at the reminder of that conversation.

"you know what i'll ask hyunjin instead," you turn to the door.

jisung whines, placing the box onto the sink so he can hold you back. wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you towards his chest and away from the door, "nooooo!"

through the mirror, you can see the pout on his lips. the longer you look though, his pout turns up into a soft smile. of course, the sight of your stupid boyfriend smiling at you has your frustrated facade crumbling as you turn in his hold, your arms wrap around his body and you clasp your hands behind him.

"will you let me dye your hair?" jisung pouts again.

you sigh.

for a moment, you choose to stay silent and stare at him, acting like you're in deep thought before you're nodding, giving your boyfriend permission to help you dye your hair. the boy claps his hands before he reaches for the box, but the moment he opens the box his pointer finger is pointed at you.

"you won't blame me if your hair is patchy or you end up bald?" he asks and receives an answer immediately with the way you're looking—glaring— at him, "ok. go get a black shirt from my room."

you scurry out of the bathroom and into jisung's bedroom down the hall, looking for one of his old black shirts. meanwhile, jisung removes the contents inside of the box, analyzing them before lining it up on the sink. when you walk back into the bathroom, lacking a pair of pants and the addition of his shirt, jisung is intently focusing on switching between the instructions and combining the components of the dye together. wanting to make sure he isn't already fucking it up. you perch yourself on the edge of the bathtub, watching as jisung mixes the goopy liquid before he hands over the bowl for you to hold.

he starts by parting your hair and pushing it back with one of your hair claws. when he picks up the dye brush, the boy gives you another look as if to confirm once again that you trust him to put these chemicals onto your head, at that you nod and he begins.

you sit patiently, extending the bowl of dye closer to jisung whenever he needs it and moving your head when he nudges you. you're looking up at him with a soft smile on your lips, his bottom lip jut out in a subtle pout as he focuses on painting the blue dye into your hair. when it's time for him to do the back of your head, instead of him getting into the tub, you turn so your feet are in the tub and your back is facing him.

you glance down at the bowl of dye, seeing that the bowl is almost empty, "how's it look?"

"it looks like a smurf threw up on you," you feel the brush against your scalp.

"haha."

"i don't think we need to open the other box," jisung moves around to see if he's missed any spots in the back, "i think i'm almost done? turn around."

you face him again and jisung proceeds to poke and prod at your hair. this time to check to see if he needs to go over any places at the front of your head. while he doesn't see anything, for good measure, he decides to take the rest of what's left inside the bowl and plop it onto your head before spreading that around.

"looks like one box was enough."

jisung grabs your phone, handing it to you as you exchange it with the empty bowl of dye. you set a timer on your phone as jisung rinses the brush and the bowl, hoping to make little to no splashee to avoid a lecture from chan later on.

"i got two just in case," you tell him, "i didn't want to walk around with half of my head dyed."

"you said it would be my art," jisung counters, his hands still busy cleaning.

you stick your tongue out to the boy and he does the same thing back, only this time bringing both hands near his face and wiggling his fingers in the air.

"i'll head butt you."

"oh no, stitch is angry," he mocks as he removes the gloves.

jisung takes a seat on the closed toilet right as hyunjin, who had gotten up from the couch to go to his room, passes by the bathroom only to walk backwards to do a double take. hyunjin's eyes graze over the hair dye, his lips pursed together as he observes jisung's work.

"i hope your skin doesn't turn blue," he says, referring to the dye that ended up on your cheek or further down your forehead than you expected.

jisung is snickering next to you, "smurf."

your head darts in his direction, glaring.

"angry smurf."

at the moment, you catch hyunjin staring at you while he takes a quick snap of your hilarious hair and dye-smeared face with his phone. your jaw drops as you hear the camera click.

"no wonder you two are best friends," you grumble, arms crossing over your chest, "i'll head butt the both of you!"

hyunjin giggles as he walks away, jisung's phone on the sink vibrates from a sudden notification. it's definitely the picture hyunjin took of you glaring at him. your boyfriend doesn't pick up his phone to check but he makes a mental note to save that photo to his camera roll later on. depending on how funny it is he may also make that your new contact photo on his phone.

the two of you wait for the timer to go off, you gaze off into the distance, eyes not focusing on anything as you zone out. on the other hand, jisung's eyes graze over you, looking at your head and the dye stains on your skin and he thinks about what methods would be best to remove the dye stains on your skin.

"i'll keep the other box in my room," jisung's voice captures your attention, your head darts in his direction with a confused look on your face, "the other box."

he gestures to the plastic bag, that somehow ended up on the floor and you nod.

"i'll probably be the one dying it again so i'll keep it in my room."

"you'd help again?" your jolt, posture straightening from the excitement.

he nods, "of course. unless…"

"unless what? if you say unless my hair falls out and i'm bald i will actually head butt you."

he shakes his head, chuckling as he crosses his arms over his chest. he shrugs before he continues, "unless i start to really like how your hair looks blue and decide i also want the same colour."

the possibility that you and jisung would have matching hair colours has your heart fluttering. you absolutely love it when you and jisung match, most of the time it's small things like matching accessories. but matching hair colours in comparison to matching accessories, felt like a grander display.

based on jisung's observation of your facial expression; your beaming eyes and the subtle way you bite at your lip. it's clear that the idea is something that appeals to you. he can practically feel the excitement radiating off your body and seeping into his own.

"hmm… we'll wash your hair out and you can dye mine?"

main masterlist

#stray kids x reader #stray kids soft hours #stray kids imagine #stray kids comfort #stray kids imagines #stray kids one shot #stray kids one shots #skz jisung fluff #skz han jisung fluff #skz jisung oneshot #skz jisung oneshots #skz jisung imagine #skz jisung imagines #stray kids jisung imagine #stray kids jisung one shot #stray kids jisung imagines #stray kids jisung one shots

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taiyeoki · 7 months

Text

PRETTY LITTLE PUSSY | Kashimo Hajime

↳ Kashimo + Reader

Genre : Smut

W/C : 4.8K

Warnings : 🔞Minors do not interact | Contains fingering, edging, squirting, breast play, slight electrocution (come on it's Kashimo🧍🏻‍♀️), pussy drunk Kashimo, dirty talk, praising, a bit of fluff.

Synopsis : Hakari invites you and Kashimo to hangout but Kashimo had been dying to get home. Little did you know he had other plans instead of just relaxing with you. When you wanted to have fun in the café, he wanted to have fun as well, just not in the way you had expected.

A/N : I was bored. Man I can't seem to find Tumblr's HTML part, I wanna make stuff with different colours 💀 Reader is a fem btw.

Hakari knew Kashimo was an ancient man who came from the 1600 so he had to drag him out to town. Kashimo had a hard time understanding the modern world after all, so Hakari would be his "saviour" who would teach him everything he should know. Hence, Kashimo had been invited to hangout at a bubble tea café because he said that it was "trendy" and lots of people had been buying from that café recently.

It was funnier how he would honestly lecture everyone in this modern era, repeating "sorcerers these days..." or "back in my day..." Like an old man that he is despite being in his prime. Plus he couldn't understand much of what Hakari and Kirara spoke of;

"What are you slaying?"

"What is a 'Pikachu vibe' and why do they keep calling me that? Is it a bad thing?"

"Period? Y/n are you on your period? Should I get a heating pad for you?"

Which is why you were here now because number one, you knew Kashimo would disappear the moment he even thinks about leaving Hakari's side and number two, you had been invited anyway. You were currently standing in line to buy your drinks while Kashimo and Hakari sat at a nearby booth next to the window to keep a spot for you guys to hangout at, the sunlight shining down on them. The sunbeam hits Kashimo's face as it gave him a glowing look, caressing his skin and giving life to his warm eyes. His cyan orbs were complimented with the pinkish hue of lightning patterns under his eyes. Kashimo's eyebrows were furrowed as usual and his eyelashes looked naturally curled. He had a calm yet fierce expression which honestly turned you on as a slight aching between your legs appeared.

Kashimo had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows the way he knows you like it. You could see how veiny and muscular his arms were when he didn't have his bandages wrapped around his forearm. You tried shaking off any thoughts that were creeping into your head though as a pool began forming in your pants. Meanwhile the two of them had privacy to themselves as they waited for you to return with their drinks.

"Well?" Hakari initiates as Kashimo responds with a hum to let him continue his question. Instead, Hakari stared at him with a cheeky smile as he had his left hand held an 'O' shape while his right hand had his fingers moving in an out of that 'O' in a fucking motion. "Y/n?"

"... Is that a domain expansion?" Kashimo asked, confused on what Hakari was doing with his hands.

"PFFT A DOMAIN EXPANSION?" Hakari laughed out loud, cackling so much that it caught everyone's attention and yours. You turned back to see what the two were talking about although you couldn't hear what they said other than Hakari's laughter. It made you happy to say the least as you saw your boyfriend chatting with someone since he was never the type to be a social butterfly. Although you don't think that he cracked a joke since Kashimo looked even more confused than you did. The poor man couldn't understand the action Hakari did. After all they never had such an openly explicit movement back in the Edo period.

It looked like Hakari was dying from laughter as he held his abdomen, wheezing as he spoke, "what kind of sex domain is that?" After a while though his cackling died down and you finally return with all your bubble tea. Hakari looked like he lost all the oxygen in his body.

"What happened?" You tried to inquire, wanting to know what they were laughing about but Hakari just chuckles as he was reminded of what did happened. Shrugging it off as he replied, "don't worry about it. It looks like I broke him though," Hakari said as he points to Kashimo. As you looked over to him, Kashimo had his forehead planted against the edge of the table, face hidden and his body still. You decided to brush it off since the cyan haired man looked like he didn't want to say anything else.

Unbeknownst to Hakari though you and Kashimo had already have a fair share of lovemaking together. He just never expected that a 400 year old man was still capable of fucking since he always looked too busy wanting to fight Sukuna anyway.

Throughout your time with the two you noticed Kashimo being silent. You knew he wasn't too talkative especially with anyone other than you but this time he was oddly quiet. When you looked over to him he looked a bit bothered. Is he sick?

"Jime? You alright?" You checked up on him wanting to make sure he's fine. His face was a bit flushed and he looked like he was trying to stabilize his breathing but little did you know his head was full of erotic thoughts of fucking you till your legs won't work.

Soon enough you all decided to part ways and Kashimo was especially persistent on it. You didn't understand why but he looked... Upset?

By the time you entered your welcoming home you both shared, he almost seemed to rush in, passing you as he accidentally bumps into you. Kashimo exhaled, making an exhausted sigh which sounded as if he's been holding his breath in and it made you worried. You were too concerned for him to even notice the growing tent in his pants.

"Hajime? You alri—" Kashimo's lips crashes into yours before you can even finish the sentence. Fingers firmly holding your jaw as his tongue invades your mouth, the kiss forceful and demanding. His other hand grips your waist tightly, pulling you closer to him. He was such a good kisser, always so passionate and he knows exactly how to tease you to keep you on edge. You're completely caught off guard, hands holding his wrists, whining as he cages you on your back against the wall between his strong arms.

You manage to let go, gasping, "Hajime! What are you—"

"Fuck. Been needing you all day long," his hand travels up your back, gripping the fabric of your shirt softly yet urgently.

"Do you know how long my cock's been aching huh? God knows I wanted to just bend you over back at the café and eat you out right then and there," he groans, kisses trailing from your neck to your collarbone as he takes in your sweet scent. He knows how much weaker you are compared to him— soft, delicate, and sensitive to touch. His touch was a perfect mix of gentle and rough, the man knew how to work with your body and have you screaming and begging for him.

"Need you so much," he mumbles against your skin. He swiftly shoves your pants down, revealing your cute panties that you were wearing and he drags his fingers through your folds, tracing against the wet patch that had already formed.

"Hajime," you mutter out to your boyfriend breathless, desperate for any touch at all as you instinctively spread your legs open with the help of Kashimo's knee pushing you further apart and whine, trying to hold his broad shoulders for support.

He traces soft kisses down, following from your neck to your collarbone then to your chest and further below to your waist. Soon enough he's settled between your legs and you feel his hot breath against your panties.

"Trained this pussy so well," he hums, pulling off your panties and revealing the wet mess behind the fabric. "You're already so wet just from my kisses," he smiles knowing you're just as touch starved as he was.

Blushing, your jaw clenched, trying to hold your composure but only to yelp when you felt his face sink in your wet pussy. Kashimo takes in your erotic scent, diving between your legs. Fuck— he's too good. Kashimo drags his tongue from your clit up towards your aching sex. He licks you tenderly, exploring your folds with his tongue, "you taste so good."

He groans against your skin as he speeds up his ministrations, tongue working in you with rhythm as he tastes all your love juice, prodding inside your pussy and feeling the spongy insides. You feel his lips wrap around your clit as he starts sucking almost desperately. In fact you feel as though he was enjoying this more than you were. His nose nudges against your skin, face smothered in your wet pussy as he eats you out.

You were practically shaking now, his hands gripped your thighs to keep you spread apart as you buck your hips and whine, needing to cum yet he doesn't give enough pleasure just to keep edging you. You can feel him smirk, his hungry gaze took in the sight of you squirming with need as you moaned desperately with tears pricking the corner of your eyes. Unfortunately for you the moment you felt the familiar knot form in your abdomen, Kashimo pulls away before you can even release, leaving you whining.

Stiffled moans left Kashimo, his cock pulsing in his pants as it only grew. He groans from seeing how fucked out you are, your face was flushed and you had tears dripping down, saliva wetting the edges of your lips as you pant. The sight made his dick want to explode.

"Hm? You're gonna have to tell me what you want. Whining isn't gonna help," Kashimo smirks, his expression looks smug seeing you writhe as he takes full control of your orgasm.

"You're so close," Hajime teases, knowing full well that he could end this torment at any moment. "Tell me, y/n. Do you like being on the edge like this?"

"Fuck- Hajime please, don't stop," you pleaded desperately, face flushed but you couldn't care about anything else right now. Kashimo's smile tugs at his lips as it grew with smugged pride. He knew only he could get you to beg for him like you are now.

Kashimo doesn't hesitate doing what you wanted, taking a whiff of your soaked pussy and once more the man is being pussy drunk. This time though he isn't as gentle as he was which caught you in surprise and yelp. Kashimo was aggressively sucking on everything he could as if it was going to be his last meal, lapping up anything at all and leaving no drops of your slick pussy juice. It drove you wilder as his hand slides between your legs, finding your entrance. He teases you for a moment before slipping one finger inside, slowly stretching you open for him, moaning at the feel of his large hand

"That's it," he murmurs, his finger moving in and out of you, easily finding your G-spot. His other hand slips underneath him to rub against his own hard length. "Tell me how it feels."

"Ah fuck— Hajime- it feels s'good!" You cry out with a stutter in between moans. With Kashimo's quickening pace, his finger thrusts into you mercilessly, getting greedier than he already was. You could feel his long finger slide in and out of you as his large hand palms at your clit while he eats you out, spreading sweet kisses over your pussy. He was falling harder for you by the second if it's even possible anymore considering how much he showers you with affection. A couple if seconds later you start falling apart, gasping and moaning as you tried to push his head away.

Kashimo only groans at you when you tried to remove him from your overstimulated pussy in vain. "Too much," you gasp. "Can't take it- Hajime!" You stutter in between moans and gasps, crying out as he has your brain turning into mush with just a single digit and his tongue. Watching you pull at your lip with your teeth has his cock drooling more than it was and he knew you were about to cum. Kashimo easily slips another finger in, and you feel his thick finger prod in your spongy walls. Both fingers immediately abusing that one spot in you which has your eyes rolling back to your head and crying out loud moans. The moment your pussy tighten more than it already was, he knew you were about to reach your high with the bubbling feeling once more.

"Don't you fucking dare cum," Kashimo however demands which has you desperately whining for sweet relief. He keeps his eye contact with you, watching how vulnerable you are right now and you feel so exposed as he takes in your form, drooling, moaning, gasping, writhing, anything at all. Kashimo's still palming himself, his red tip just begging to be relieved as well but he's holding back so he could cum with you too. "Please Hajime," you weakly cry out. It's as if you've lost all your energy already but to your luck, Kashimo grunts and finally allows you to release.

"Alright, since you've been such a good girl. My cute little slut deserves to cum doesn't she? Fucking do it then. Cum on my face," he groans, voice laced with lust. Finally he gives one hard thrust which has you sent over the edge, immediately cumming all over his fingers and tongue as he drinks it up. It intensifies when Kashimo sends a spark of electricity adding to the sensation, your sensitive pussy squirting all over his face which has him releasing his own load, making a gutteral moan.

"Fuck- Hajime!" Crying out loud moans, you've never felt this good before after being edged so much. The moment you finally stop squirting, your body falls limp and he pulls away as you pant heavily. His face is covered with your sweet juices and the floor splattered with his own seed.

Kashimo drags his tongue over his teeth, cleaning himself up and showing off those fangs as drops of pussy juice fell on his tongue to lap up. He brings the back of his veiny hand up to wipe his face off, "what a fucking whore. You made a mess."

Kashimo stands up and towers over your frail form, watching the art he made out of you as you held onto him for support, panting still. He delivers a harsh smack to your pussy, causing a wet slap to be heard as he chuckles darkly when you yelp. "You're so damn wet. C'mere," Kashimo easily picks you up, laying you over his broad shoulder with your ass next to his face and he takes a rough slap on your plush skin. "Hajime, you're the reason I'm wet!" Blushing, you try and retort his words to which he only chuckles at. It's as if he was carrying a feather, almost like you were just a pillow to him when he brings you along with him into your shared room. He doesn't struggle at all, entering both your room and gently kicking the door close behind him, flopping you down on the soft bed with a bit of bounce.

With the cyan haired man towering over you, he's eyeing you as if a hungry predator full of lust and it already has you aching once more, wet dripping slowly down your folds. He doesn't break eye contact with you when he reaches over to grab his nyoi staff at the corner of the bed, his seductive smirk revealing the sharp fangs as if he was ready to shove his teeth into you. Kashimo brings his muscular arm under your knees, bringing your legs up to expose your core and you feel like burning up from being flushed and from your own body reacting to him. The spherical tip of his staff presses against your wet folds has you gasping, looking down to see him tempting you as he rubs your own juices around your pussy. Your wet slick spreads onto his staff, lubricating it. "What do ya want? You're not speaking but your body is telling me everything I need to know. What's wrong? Don't tell me you're shy now? A moment ago you were moaning and crying like a slut."

"Fuck— Hajime please.." you pleaded, you can't take this aching anymore. Your walls are throbbing painfully and it's killing you. You needed to have him, to have everything he gives you but Kashimo only teases you with the nyoi staff and presses it harder against your pussy but it doesn't go in. He rubs the tip of it up and down from your pussy to your ass, the lubricated stick playing with your asshole and it made you feel dirty. "Hm? What's that? I can't hear you. Speak up." You knew he heard you. He just wanted to enjoy this moment and his smirk showed how entertained he was. A light spark of lightning flashed between his buns and he led a gentle course of it run through his nyoi staff against your aching pussy which has your hips bucking in surprise, a harsh moan caught in your throat.

"Ah— Fuck, need you. I need you please. Please just fuck me with your big cock. Can't take it anymore!" You begged for him to stop teasing and the more you pleaded the more satisfied he got, his predatory smile only grew. He took the staff away from your pussy which has you whining. He takes the spherical tip of it to his face, keeping eye contact with you as he licked the tip of it, tasting your pussy on it. His cyan orbs kept a sharp gaze on you, lustful as he savours your taste.

Kashimo satisfied himself with your taste on his nyoi staff. His dick couldn't wait either and he places it back down on the bed, crawling over your small form compared to him. His muscular arms caged you within, toned chest and chiseled abs hovering over you. The sight of body already already had you drooling, blushing at his divine looks. His soft hair fell to his sides and down above you and you got to see his features up close. He looked incredible with his fierce expression, sharp jawline and it all shows off how much power the man has, emanating dominance but to Kashimo he was the one who got lucky enough to have you all for himself. His heart fluttered at the sight in front of him, taking in your beauty, soft lips, glowing skin, bright eyes. Sometimes you wonder how a man like him fell in love with you but he genuinely did find you as the most beautiful woman he's ever seen in these 400 years. To him you were perfect. Your body was perfect and he wouldn't want you to change anything about yourself at all. He loves you the way you are now.

The aching pain at Kashimo's dick snapped him out of the trance you had on him. "You're already so warm and ready for me," he murmurs, leaning in to place a tender kiss on your lips. His hand continues to explore your body, tracing gentle patterns on your abdomen, fingers dancing over youe body. He trails his fingertips down to your inner thighs, brushing lightly against your sensitive folds. He lines up his dick against your entrance, tempted to just dive right in but he keeps his impatience at bay.

"You ready?"

"Mhm," you hum, prepared for him for fuck you senseless. "Perfect," he whispers, leaning down to kiss your stomach.

The moment you replied, he immediately entered your heat but he takes his time savouring it. The painfully slow pace causing a gutteral moan from him as he groans, finally feeling your pussy wrap around his length. Your own moan got cut off by him leaning in to kiss you, sharing your passion with one another. Kashimo pulls out of you and dives back in roughly, causing his dick to attack your G-spot with precision and you moan out loudly. He starts thrusting more, increasing the speed of it as Kashimo couldn't withstand being patient anymore.

"You're such a needy little slut," Hajime whispers against your lips between passionate kisses, groaning from time to time as he tries speaking with occasional moans which only turned you on. His dick continued to work inside of you, pounding into your tight pussy with greed.

Kashimo smirks against your lips before continuing to kiss you deeply. He moves his hips gently, grinding against you creating an intensified sensation as the tip of his dick constantly hits your spot. "You're just a dirty little whore for me."

Hajime presses his lips to yours, his tongue dancing against yours as he continues to thrust inside of your spongy walls. Whimpering and moaning, Kashimo already has you getting fucked out that you can't even form proper sentences to say. "You're such a filthy little slut," Hajime groans, his cock finding the perfect rhythm inside of you. "I bet you beg for more every time."

Kashimo doesn't neglect your breasts, noticing the hardening mounds, his large hand wraps around your soft chest and starts to knead. Your moans were muffled into the kiss, nipples being tugged and played with. Kashimo brings the kiss down from your jawline to your collarbone and soon reaching your sensitive breasts, feeling his hot breath fan against you.

At this rate your body couldn't take any more, the man was too good. He fills your head with sultry whispers as he fucks you dumb.

"So damn cock hungry and I've only started," "you like me pounding into your guts don't you?" "That's my good little slut."

You were getting fucked senseless especially with occasional sparks of lightning that seeps out from him being unable to hold back. Kashimo intensifies the pleasure though, even catching you in surprise as you didn't think it was even possible to be fucked any better. His muscular arms easily work with your body, snaking under your fragile legs to swiftly put you in a mating press. He had a look of greed and lust as he almost desperately pound into you.

The position you were in now allowed his dick to hit places even you can't reach. You gasp at the feeling of his tip expertly hitting your womb, eyes widening as your moans only grew. The way you were now has you trapped between him and Kashimo had full control over the situation. You were simply under his mercy and his predatory smile only grew. The only thought in his mind now was to just fuck you.

"Fuck," Kashimo growls against your ear, his length working faster inside of you. His hand grips your hips tightly as he continues to bring you pleasure. "You're fucking incredible."

Sweat drips down from him onto you. "Fuck, you feel so good y/n," he groans, his eyes locked onto yours as his thrusts start to get sloppy. His hips slam into you roughly now. He releases one hand to grip your neck, the other now clenching the sheets beneath him. "You're so damn perfect."

"Shit- Hajime I can't—" you were beginning to reach your climax, unable to hold back any longer. Your whimpers turned into cries and he only made it harder for you to hold back with how he had you in a gentle choke, his grip on your neck sends a light course of electricity running through your body. Your eyes rolled back a bit more as your body turns out limp in pleasure just for him to use.

"Fu- hah shit- you wanna cum? You wanna c-cum huh?" Kashimo breathes, the words more of a moan than anything else. He's close now, feeling you wrap around him, milking his cock as he fucks you faster and harder. You could only nod vigorously, overstimulated by all this and moaning desperately for sweet relief. "Let's- ah fuck. Let's cum together."

Kashimo's just as impatient as you are now, both of you needing to reach your climax. "Y/n—" Kashimo groans, feeling his climax building once more within him. "I love you so much." With one last powerful thrust, he releases his hot seed deep inside you, tip entering your womb as he fills you up and his face is dusted with a reddish blush. Your mixed fluids coating your insides. He gives your ass a rough smack and with his spanking came more electrifying sensation sending you over the edge.

He leans in close to your neck, biting your supple skin and his teeth digging into you, leaving bite marks. You could feel his veiny cock twitching and throbbing inside of you, pussy clenching around him. Kashimo fits perfectly into you as if you were made for him.

"Hajime!--" Crying out his name loudly, you scream in pleasure and the room is filled with both your moans and grunts, whimpers and cries. You're drooling with tears pricking your eyes, blushing and taking in the erotic sight of milking him dry.

Kashimo then moves to kiss you, lips locking and intertwining as his groans are muffled and so are your cries.

Your back arches, practically screaming moans now as you squirt once more, both your release mixing as your walls tighten around to keep him inside. He groans at the feel, riding out his orgasm. Coating his cock with love juice, you're gripping the sheets beneath you and finally Kashimo's thrusts slow down into a halt and he pulls away from the kiss, looking down at the mess below him, taking in the sight of your beauty.

Both of you are panting heavily, unable to say anything yet from how much stimulation you went through.

His abs were splattered with your squirt due to the mating press, balls deep in you and his hard cock painted with both your cum. You both stayed there until he finally speaks up.

"Fuck, y/n," Kashimo murmurs as he pulls out of your pussy, his lips and tongue trailing over your jaw in sync. "You make me so fucking happy."

He chuckles when you can only whimper as a response, "was I too rough? Sorry. Couldn't help myself, after all your fucking perfect." He leans down closer to you, hot breath fanning your ear when he mutters, "love you so much baby..."

"Love you too..." You croak out, tired from earlier.

Kashimo nibbles at your earlobe, his warm lips against your colder skin then he showers you with sweet kisses. Making sure to give attention to your lips, cheeks, forehead, neck, anything at all, he lays soft kisses on them.

Kashimo plops himself down beside you, chest heaving from panting and he wraps his strong arms around your small frame. He hums and nuzzles against the crook of your neck, resting there for a moment and it makes you giggle from seeing this soft sight. Kashimo had always been a brute fighter so it made you feel special whenever he only shows this sweet side of him to you.

"Jime..." You call out to him, your angelic voice like music to his ears. He'd always melt to your touch, your voice, your love.

"Hm?"

"That was amazing."

Kashimo chuckles more, his smile was so captivating to you. He looked so soft and gentle when he smiles, so sweet and it makes you forget that this man was the strongest in the Edo period who goes around causing mass murders to challengers who provoke him.

"Love you so much y/n. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

You bring your small hand up to cup his cheek, pulling him closer into a comforting kiss and he reciprocates, returning the love as you felt his smile grow. You stay there for a moment until soon enough both of you ran out I'd breath, panting when you pull away.

Kashimo wanted more kisses but he didn't want to tire you out too much. He hums, "do you wanna drink anything?"

"Water is fine."

"Alright," he sits up and gets off the bed, leaving you alone for a moment but you can still feel his warmth in his side of the bed. He made sure to cover you with the blanket first and you cuddled into it, nuzzling his pillow and taking in his comforting scent.

Kashimo returns with a glass of water, his other hand held warm cloth for you to clean yourself up with.

You attempt to stand, seeing him invite you to join him and clean yourselves up but as you laid your foot on the ground, you wobbled a bit. Kashimo instantly catches you before you could fall though. "Are you alright? Do you need me to carry you?"

You laugh a bit, "yeah. You did this after all."

"Pfft, alright," he sets the glass down on the nightstand and easily carries you up in his muscular arms. He gives you a peck, being held in a bridal style, allowing you to take in the view of his chiseled chest, sharp jawline, soft cyan hair. The golden light shining in through the window also reflected his good looks.

Your hand goes up to gently brush over the lightning patterns at his bottom eyelids and he closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. You stayed there for a few seconds and it was the most comforting silence you've ever felt. Kashimo's eyes open, showing off his bright cyan orbs, smiling down at you.

"Come on. Let's take a shower."

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